


In Pursuit

by Thrill_of_hope



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Religious Conflict, Tension, reylo vibes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:40:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 39,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26053600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thrill_of_hope/pseuds/Thrill_of_hope
Summary: The Weeping Monk hunts the Wolf-Blood Witch, connected to her in some inexplicable way.
Relationships: Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 282
Kudos: 419





	1. The Hunt Begins

“Let me find her, Father,” the Weeping Monk volunteers, thrilled at the challenge, at the opportunity it would present. Bringing down the witch before her resistance could embolden the Fey who remained would be a leap forward on his path to salvation. He needs this. 

Carden seems ready to deny him, to send him on some other mindless quest, but then he reconsiders. “Bring her to us, my son. We’ll make an example of her for the demons that infest this land; there is nowhere they can hide that we won’t find them.”

He nods, the movement largely hidden by the dark cloak that shrouds his features. He looks once more upon his Brother, strung up like an animal, crucified by vines that made themselves one with his insides. _What sort of demon could do this to a man?_ The Weeping Monk shudders, determined to rid the world of such evil. He touches the earth soaked in wolf blood, bringing the scent of metal, of earth, of _her_ to his nose, into his lungs. _And so the hunt commences,_ he thinks, the slightest of smirks a temptation on his lips as he effortlessly mounts Goliath, fingers still bathed in crimson.

****

A white pebble on the creek’s bed, stained sanguine, is his next sign of her. He runs his hand under the flowing water, releasing the blood that clung to his skin; it was cool in the evening light. She must have stopped here to clean the blood from her sword. _No ordinary sword,_ his father had said. Intrigue, curiosity motivating him, he continues on her trail, certain it’s only a matter of time. 

****

He finds her, eventually, in the woods, not far from her village. _Why would she return here?_ His brothers had likely already hunted down any survivors, exorcising the demons in fire. He leaves Goliath a distance away, continuing his pursuit on foot.

The Weeping Monk is all stealth as he anticipates her path and interrupts it, standing hooded and threatening before her. She stops, frozen in terror as she takes him in. _Good._

“I saw you the day they attacked my village.” Her eyes are wide as they follow him, circling around her as though stalking prey. He comes closer, but not near enough to touch her, a tantalizing menace. “A demon, a shadow, come to sow destruction, death upon innocents.”

“Me, a demon?” He’s incredulous, spiteful. “I saw the man you strung up, left in agonizing torture. And you call me the demon?” He steps to her, so close he can practically feel her heart thundering.

Her eyes fall, resting on the sword still sheathed in her hand. _No ordinary sword._ He moves to seize it; her terror seems to dissipate at the movement, the fight he’d expected, craved, surfacing as her grasp on the sword tightens. His fingers land partially on hers, partially on the sword. He recoils instantly, struck with the screams, the horror, the death. It’s not foreboding, it’s reflective, a mark of his many accomplishments. It’s sickening. 

The witch takes advantage of his momentary distraction. Before he can blink, he’s trapped in serpentine branches, tethered to the base of an ancient tree, watching helplessly as she eludes him.

****

Nimue isn’t entirely sure why she had not just killed him. She was certainly capable of it. A red-robed man clawing at her, his screams, his agony, flood her mind. The screams. She’d heard them when she’d wiped the blade of wolf’s blood, and she’d heard them again when the Monk had grabbed for the sword, his fingers brushing hers by accident. Only, it hadn’t been the solitary scream that haunted her, but the cries of hundreds, no doubt slain at his hand. The man was a monster, an abomination deserving of death, but something had kept her from giving him what he deserved--some unidentifiable, nonsensical voice in the recess of her mind.

She runs, determined to put as much distance between herself and this weeping monk as she can before he can break free from her earthly chains. 

****

The Monk studies his prison of vines. He cannot reach either of his swords, his arms tight against his sides. _There is only one way._ He hates the very thought of it, that she had forced him to embrace the abomination, the part of himself he hated most. _The lesser of two evils, I suppose._ He feels his face heat, knows the marks beneath his eyes smolder, as the scent of singed wood fills his nostrils. In a moment, her spell is broken, the branches falling away from him as he rises to his feet.

He wonders why she had not killed him. He knew she could have, the horrific image of his brother impaled by slithering vines imprinted in his mind. The way she had looked at him when he’d touched her, touched the sword confused him. She had heard the screams, he was certain. She now knew the precise breed of monster he was. That was not the part that surprised him; it was the way she’d considered him, only momentarily, almost like she was latching on to some similarity between them. A ridiculous notion. He had nothing in common with this Wolf-Blood Witch, a demon sorceress. He was a man of God, an avenging angel, created for a single purpose: to rid the world of evil. Evil like her. 

He centers his mind, putting aside the self-flagellation that any hint of his true nature always encouraged in him. There would be time for that later. Now, he had to find that witch--she had an exorcism scheduled with his father. 

****

Nimue narrowly makes her way to Hawksbridge, hood covering her face as she weaves through the bustling crowd by night. She breathes a sigh of relief, finally feeling like she might be able to rest in relative safety. The feeling is short-lived, a proclamation of wicked crimes and a death sentence for the Wolf-Blood Witch reaching her ears as she moves away from the gathering crowd. Quickly, yet careful not to draw attention to herself, she heads toward an alley, away from any prying eyes. Nimue sinks to the ground, exhausted, frightened, not sure what to do next. 

A memory comes to her, unbidden, of one of the many times she had tried to run away from her village as a child. Her father, as he always did, tracked her down, brought her back, despite the way she fought him, despite his own reluctance to have her around. She looks down at the sword; there was no home to return to now. 

She draws the sword from its sheath, studying the mysterious blade. The whispers return, haunting, but inarticulate, muddled. She covers the sword once more; she’d suffered enough confusion today. With the action, another memory plays in her mind, only this one, she knows is not her own. _There is a boy, no older than Squirrel, sitting around a fire with an older man and woman. His parents. They’re happy, smiling, eating stew together when the boy reaches behind him to reveal the bow he’d made earlier that day. His father looks on with pride, and the boy revels in it. “Well done, Lancelot,” the man says, ruffling the boy’s hair affectionately. The boy looks up as if glancing into her very soul._

Nimue startles, coming out of the foreign memory. It was as if he’d seen her, those icy blue eyes surrounded by the tears she’d only seen once before. The Weeping Monk. How had she seen that? And what did it mean?

****

He hears whispers, but he’s certain there is no one around; he would feel them. They desist, but then he is overtaken by a memory. _He sits around the fire with his parents, eating rabbit stew. He had trapped a brace of coneys earlier that day, bringing them to his mother with a wide grin on his face. He shows them the bow he had been working so hard to build, wanting every detail to be perfect, beautiful. His father grins, proud of his hard work. “Well done, Lancelot.” He smiles at the ground, not wanting to show just how much the words mean to him. He looks up after a moment, startled to find a young woman staring at him, eyes as blue as the sea._

He shudders, desperate to purge the memory he had long repressed. Where had that come from? And why had she been there, the witch? It had been an out of body experience, his past and present joining together in such a strange way. What sorcery was this? What spell had she cast upon him now?

Torn between anger and determination, he follows after her with a vengeance. She would not escape him a second time.

****

She sees his familiar form from her vantage point in the alley, and she’s certain this is her mind clutching at a desperate hope, imagining him. Nimue blinks to dispel the image, but when her eyes open, he remains, his warm brown eyes and that perpetual, impossible optimism on display in the fire’s light. 

She goes to him, latching on to his arm, calling his name. He must see her desperation, the fear in her eyes. “Nimue, what’s happened? Where’s Pym?” His concern is palpable; she can feel it in the air, soaking through her skin at his touch.

“She’s gone. They’re all gone. I--” 

Arthur places his hands on her shoulders, an attempt to calm her. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. Breathe.” She settles, barely. “What’s happened?” he asks once more.

She tells him, recalling the chaos, the violence she and Pym had stumbled upon after they’d left him. She tells him of her narrow escape from their clutches, of the solemn, haunting man in red and his shrouded warrior, the Weeping Monk. She shows him the sword, holding back tears at her mother’s fate, and her mysterious directive. _Take this to Merlin._ She ends with the news of the man that stalks her. “I trapped him in the woods not far outside of the village.” Nimue ignores his look of confusion at her report. “It won’t be long before he follows me here. I need to leave, tonight.”

Arthur seems like he wants to argue with her, tell her to slow down once more, but he must sense her dread because he only nods in accord. Nimue follows him to the town’s edge and they slip into the woods, unnoticed. She lets out a sigh of relief at no longer having to hide from wandering paladin eyes, at no longer being alone. She barely knows Arthur, but she feels like she can trust him to help her fulfill her mother’s dying wish.

They walk for a few hours, heading away from Hawksbridge and the place that had never truly felt like home. Content they’ve put enough distance between themselves and the Monk, the pair stop for some rest. She sits, catching her breath as Arthur lights a fire before her. With the sparks, she sees something, vaguely. 

She sees with clarity when the fire roars to life. He’s in the alley, his fingers brushing the dirt where she’d sat, considering the sword. He turns, his weeping eyes locking upon her. She can see his confusion, and she’s certain it’s reflected in her eyes. “What have you done to me, witch?” His voice is a low growl, rumbling in her brain as he demands an explanation. He thinks she’s done this, turned him into her own personal specter to haunt her at every turn?

Nimue scoffs. “What have I done? You’re the one who is hunting me like an animal, who has killed everyone I’ve ever known.” She looks at him with undisguised disgust.

“And so you mean to haunt me? Tempt me with memories of my past?” It’s his turn to scoff. “That boy is long dead.”

_So he had seen it, too._ Nimue is more confused than ever, but she’s determined not to show it this time; she will not appear as anything other than in control before him. “I know there’s no good left in you, Lancelot.” She uses his given name as a barb, an arrow aimed straight at his heart. “You’ve no temptation to fear from me.”

She sees the briefest of winces, but he is quick to school his expression. “Rest while you can, witch.” He stands, foreboding. “I’m coming for you.” He’s gone, then, only the flames remaining in his place.

Arthur looks at her, concern creasing his brow. Had she been speaking aloud? No matter. There was no time to fret over it. “We need to leave,” she tells him. 

“We’ve only just stopped,” Arthur protests, motioning toward the fire he had built. 

She repeats her plea. “He’s coming.”

“This Weeping Monk?” Arthur asks, clarifying. 

She nods. 

His eyes narrow. “How do you know?”

Nimue is not sure how to even begin to describe the connection that sparked between her and the monster of a man who hunted her. “Just, trust me, please,” she begs. 

He sits in silence a moment, weighing his reluctance as he warms his hands by the fire. Finally, he nods, the movement barely discernible. He stands, stamping out the fire and then offering her his hand. “I know a place you’ll be safe,” Arthur says, and she has no choice but to follow him into the darkness.


	2. Stranglehold

Nimue wakes in a strange place, startled. She feels a hand on her shoulder, steadying her, calming her. “You’re okay, you’re safe,” the voice belonging to the hand says. She looks up, a girl no older than herself with dark, honeyed skin looking back down at her. “Where’s Arthur?” Nimue asks. She looks for the sword, panicking when she cannot find it. “Where is my sword?” she demands, restless.

“I do not know. All he said was that he was fulfilling a dying wish, and that I should keep you safe until he returns.” 

She senses the truth of the girl’s words, and she sighs in defeat. It had only been a couple of days. How had she already failed in her quest? The girl, Igraine, she had called herself, hands her a stack of clothing. “You will want to put this on if you mean not to stand out here,” she suggests, not unkindly. Nimue nods, donning the habit when she hears the door close behind Igraine. She crumples her blue tunic into a ball and shoves it into the chest at the foot of the bed where she had slept the night before. Properly disguised, Nimue leaves the room, following Igraine, forced to trust Arthur’s connection to her, though she certainly could not trust  _ him  _ anymore. They are stopped by an older woman, and Nimue struggles to hide her fear. The abbess directs them to the infirmary with a flourish, telling them of a gravely injured paladin; she warns them to act with care and precision. “The paladins will not be happy if this man dies.”

Igraine simply nods, taking Nimue by the hand. “Any experience with healing, Alice?” she asks as the pair head toward the infirmary. “Alice?” Igraine pulls her to a stop. “Alice?” she says, looking at Nimue in confusion. 

Nimue startles, having forgotten the name she had given Igraine.  _ Alice, right.  _ “A little,” Nimue says, but she does not expound on it, worried she’ll reveal too much of herself. She ignores the look of suspicion in Igraine’s eyes as they enter the infirmary, tortured screams grasping their attention. They move closer to the man’s side, and Nimue has to force herself to stay calm. It was him. The man who had chased after her. The man whose screams haunted her. Taking in a deep breath, Nimue looks upon the fruit of her curse: vines weave through the man’s body, twisting in a constant, agonizing motion. His chest bears strange wounds that seem...alive...where she had struck him with the Sword. 

“What happened to him?” Igraine asks, horrified. 

One of the men at his side answers. “He was attacked by a demon sorceress, the Wolf-Blood Witch. Apparently she wields this ancient sword, the Devil’s Tooth,” the man spits. “It’s what caused the unnatural wounds to his chest. Not that any of this is natural, mind you.”

Nimue is careful to keep her head down, make it look like she is taking in the man’s wounds, developing the best strategy for his treatment. The men leave, eventually, much to Nimue’s relief, and she and Igraine set to the impossible task of healing the man before them. 

They try many things, but he worsens as the day goes on. “I may know something that might help him,” Nimue offers, telling Igraine of a Fey poultice, careful to leave out its origins. Igraine gives her a strange look, but leaves the room to hunt down the necessary ingredients. She feels her skin tingling as she is alone with the man for a second time. Nimue steps to his side, her hand hovering over the swirling wounds that mar his chest. She had done this to him. Hesitantly, she reaches for one, some dark curiosity plaguing her. She touches the mark and it stills, a jolt rushing through her blood. Nimue turns away in a hurry, closing her eyes. Behind her lids, she sees fire--a forest ablaze and a cloaked man cutting down every living being in his path. The Weeping Monk. She shivers, forcing her eyes open. Even without the Sword, flashes of him, of his past, of his present seemed to follow her wherever she went. 

Igraine returns before she can puzzle over what it all means. Nimue gathers the ingredients and quickly sets about mixing the poultice. A moment later, she prepares to spread the concoction over the man’s wounds. Igraine stays her hand. “Who are you, truly, Alice?”

“Truly?” Nimue asks, wondering if she can trust this friend of Arthur’s.

“It seems odd that a girl like you would deal in Fey remedies,” Igraine observes, knowingly. 

She could deny it, but against all reason, she chooses to trust the girl. She will not survive here without a friend--she just hopes Igraine is the right one. “My name is Nimue,” she introduces herself with a sigh, hoping for the best. 

“And you are Fey?” the girl asks, although it seems she already knows.

Nimue only nods, not trusting her voice. 

Igraine smiles then, much to Nimue’s surprise. “You’re safe with me, Nimue. I will help you, but you must be convincing as Alice, so as not to arouse suspicion from the others.”

Nimue nods once more, relieved. 

The man chokes, gasps, and the pair return to his side. The commotion seems to draw in the man’s brothers, too, to Nimue’s chagrin. Igraine quickly covers the wounds on his chest with a sheet. “What’s happening in here?” a Paladin demands. 

Igraine observes his nose, his mouth, trying to identify the source of his discomfort. “There’s something in there,” she looks down his throat in confusion, in horror. Slowly, she pulls vines from his insides; they cling to him, drawing out his suffering with each tug she gives. Finally, with a pained scream and a tearing sound, his throat is clear. He coughs, blood spilling from his mouth. Nimue looks on, frozen in terror. “Alice, go get some cloth for bandages.” Nimue remains still, almost dazed. “Alice!” Igraine shouts, “go now, before he bleeds out!” Coming back to herself, Nimue rushes from the room to do as she’s told. 

****

The Weeping Monk returns to Yvoire Abbey, a stop in his pursuit of the witch. He had come across some maps that he knew his father would find useful, detailing the location of numerous Fey villages and strongholds. He had tracked her in this general direction, so it was not as if he was straying too far from her trail. 

He strides into the room, standing before his father and brothers seated around a table. Still cloaked, he pulls the maps from their place on his belt, delivering the gift to his father. Carden is elated, knowing what these maps mean for their cause. “Well done, my son,” his father commends him. “It’s only a matter of time for the demons now,” Carden says, a victorious chuckle on his lips as he turns to the gathered Paladins. “Now we just need to find that Sword.” 

The Monk tunes out their celebration, struck by...something. He is not quite sure what it is that draws his attention away. Excusing himself, he makes his way through the hall, following what, he knows not. He finds himself before a door, the presentiment that had drawn him away now a flare to his senses. He opens the door, entering the small room, what looked to be sleeping quarters for the Sisters. The Monk pauses before one of the beds, opening the chest at its foot. He removes a blue garment, crumpled, bloodstained. Bringing it to his nose, he inhales, fire, sweat, and wolf’s blood.  _ Her.  _ She was here.

He leaves the room as he found it, certain he is closer to capturing her than ever. He returns to the great hall, lying in wait.

**** 

Nimue means to collect more bandages, she does, but when she passes a room and hears men celebrating the coming death of her people, she sneaks in with a serving dish to gather more information. “The demons’ days are numbered now that we have these maps,” a white-haired man proclaims, holding up the parchment to the men at the table. She moves slowly, gathering every detail she can as she fills their vessels with water. Nimue lingers, perhaps too long; remembering what drew her away from the infirmary in the first place, she leaves the men to their plotting, plotting her own return to the room to destroy their precious maps. She hurries along, intent to retrieve the cloth and make up for some of the time she had been away. 

She’s nearly there, a stack of fresh linens tucked under her arm, when she feels an iron grip, pulling her into the shadows. Nimue is dragged down a dark set of stairs, nearly sent tumbling but for the firm grasp of her abductor. Finally, she is on solid ground, being spun around like a doll. She startles, coming face-to-face with him once more, the Weeping Monk. She can barely see his face for the hood that shields him, but she knows it is him, can feel it in his touch. His touch which burns her, scars her, haunts her. He releases her, as if sharing her thoughts. 

“Clever of you to hide in an abbey,” he drawls, forcing her back with every step he takes forward. “Where is the sword, witch?” the Monk hisses, so close she can feel the aspiration of his breath, her back against the rough stone wall of the cellar, bandages now laying soiled on the damp ground. She did not feel clever, trapped in an isolated place with this man who meant to kill her. She could not call out for help either, hiding in plain sight amongst her enemy as she was. 

“I do not have it,” Nimue bites back. She should not be so aggressive, what with the control he has over her at the moment, but she’d rather die than yield to him.

“Do not lie to me,” he threatens, his hand closing over her throat, robbing her of air.

She chokes, dizzy, terrified. “I’m not!” she wheezes, clawing against his hand as her back scrapes stone. 

“Let’s just say I believe you,” the Monk starts, releasing his hold on her. 

Nimue gasps, desperately forcing air through her starved lungs. “I do not care what you believe,” she spits, “I do not have the sword.”

“Where is it?” he demands, his thigh between her legs, keeping her pinned against the wall.

“It was stolen,” she shrugs, knowing her purposefully vague answer will frustrate him. 

He does not rise to her bait, biting back sarcastically, instead. “What, the thief you trusted to help you betrayed you? I’m shocked, truly.”

She hates that he sees so much. He interrupts the retort at the tip of her tongue. “Where has he gone?” Nimue just glares at him, refusing to answer. His hand moves to her throat once more, and her eyes widen in panic. Instead of closing around her windpipe, his fingers trail down the soft skin of her neck slowly, tracing her collarbone to her shoulder. He leans in, his breath a whisper in her ear. “You will find out,” he commands. “Ask whatever friend he has here that would aid him in hiding you.” It seemed nothing escaped his notice. She might be impressed if he hadn’t tried to choke the life from her not a moment before.

The Weeping Monk steps back and she lets out a breath in relief. “Come back here when you find out where the thief has gone.” He catches her arm as she moves to escape the cellar, escape him. “If you do not do as I ask, I will let my brothers know you are here.” He leans into her once more, his breath on her ear sending a shiver down her spine. “They will not be so kind.”

She yanks her arm away, creating space between them. “Oh, this is kindness?” she retorts in bitter disbelief. 

“More than you deserve, sorceress.” She wants to slap him and his stupid, smug face. “Hurry back,” he says, effectively dismissing her.

She practically runs up the stairs, only slowing when she reaches the top, calming herself, smoothing her hands over her habit, as though that was all it took to temper her raging nerves. She finds Igraine where she’d left her, tending to the man in red who had threatened her in the woods. The man who was somehow still alive. She pulls Igraine aside. “I need to know where Arthur has gone.”


	3. A Means to an End

“Where have you been?” Igraine hisses. “You are lucky Celia was passing by and could fetch bandages in your absence, otherwise, you’d have some pretty angry paladins after you right about now.”

“About that,” Nimue starts.

“What’s happened?”

“I have it under control,” Nimue whispers, “but you must tell me where Arthur has gone.”

“I already told you, I--” Igraine’s reply is cut off by distressed sounds of stirring. 

“He’s waking!” one of the Paladins exclaims. Nimue and Igraine turn their attention back to the wounded man. His eyes blink, several attempts before they open in earnest. He looks around the room, disoriented. After a moment, his eyes lock on Nimue in recognition. The man tries to rise, but is not strong enough yet. His hand extends shakily in her direction, finger pointed. Nimue knows the word he struggles with is  _ you;  _ she can see the terror, the accusation in his eyes _.  _ It would all be over soon. 

Igraine, sensing her panic, draws a vial surreptitiously from her sleeve, wetting a cloth with its contents before she makes to calm the man. She soothes him, brushing the fabric along his forehead, his lips. She tells them that all he needs is more prayer. A group of Paladins rush in, and the girls flee the room while the Paladins are absorbed in their prayers. They escape to the sound of his coughs and the spurting of blood as Igraine’s poison takes hold.

Igraine drags her by the hand to an alcove in the hall, away from prying eyes. “You have to get out of here! It will not be long before they become suspicious.”

“I cannot leave until I know where Arthur has taken my sword,” Nimue states her aim, persistent.

“He did not tell me, Nimue,” Igraine repeats.

“He might not have told you, but surely, you have to have some idea,” Nimue begs. 

Igraine sighs, feeling Nimue’s desperation. “He may have gone to Grammaire. We have family there.” It’s all she offers, but it’s enough. 

“Grammaire,” Nimue says with a nod. 

“Now, come!” Igraine pleads, pulling at her. “I know a way we can sneak you out.”

Nimue stands her ground. “I have unfinished business to take care of.” She thinks of the Monk, of the maps. 

“Nimue---” Igraine seems desperate, exasperated. 

“I will be fine, Igraine.” She squeezes the girl’s arm in friendly affection, in appreciation. “Thank you for helping me.” 

Igraine looks like she wants to argue, to drag Nimue to safety regardless of her unfinished business, but she does neither. She simply wraps her arms around Nimue in a tight embrace. “Be careful.”

Nimue only nods, overtaken by the display of friendship. Igraine returns to the infirmary, leaving Nimue to pursue the Fey documents the Paladins had exulted in not too long ago. It takes her longer than she would like, tracking down the room; the abbey was a maze of identical halls and rooms, and she had been too distracted by the injured paladin to make note of her path. Finally, as if summoned there, she stands in the room’s entrance. She rushes to the table, finding the stack of maps and lists she sought. She exhales in relief, reaching for the papers. Her blood runs cold.  _ She sees him, again, in fire. Hears the screams of women, children as he looks upon his good work.  _ Nimue blinks, desperate to banish the image she was sure was connected to his appropriation of the lists she held. 

She conceals the papers in her sleeve; she is tempted to destroy them, to bury them in fire, but something stops her. There is something else she must do first. 

Nimue retraces the path to the infirmary slowly, stopping when she sees a small strip of fabric discarded carelessly in an unlit corridor. He must have taken her here. Putting on a confidence she does not feel, she descends into the shadows to face the Weeping Monk once more. 

She finds him reclined against the stone wall, twirling a dagger precariously, effortlessly in the air. He looks up at her. “Took you long enough.”

“Forgive me, Brother.” The address holds none of the respect it should. “I am new to the abbey. I’m still finding my way,” she blinks her wide eyes innocently, mocking. 

She sees his lips twitch, as if he is tempted to laugh. He doesn’t. It must have been some trick of the shadows. He rises, invading her space once more. “Where has our thief gone?”

Nimue hates the word  _ our  _ coming out of his mouth. She does not want to share anything with this man. She steps back, tripping over the bottom stair. He hovers above her in an instant, a knee beside her thigh, an arm, bracing, on the step next to her head. “You are testing my patience, witch.”

She knows once he has what he wants she will be of little importance to him--he’ll likely kill her where she sits. Nimue glares at him, belying her dread. The brush of paper against her skin when she shifts to a position that makes her feel less powerless gives her an idea. “He has gone to Grammaire. And you will take me there with you.”

He blinks his weeping eyes at her, incredulous. “And why on earth would I do that?”

“If you do not,” she meets his eye in challenge, “the maps you killed woman and children for burn with me when I am discovered here.”

He does not look the least bit concerned, leaning in until his nose touches her cheek. “What’s to stop me from just taking the maps from you and killing you anyway?”

“You would have to search me...thoroughly,” she whispers, suggestively. “Somehow, I don’t think your brothers would find that appropriate, and they are only a shout away,” she trails off, hoping to have gained some advantage over him. 

His eyes rake over her body, a filthy perusal. His breath is hot on her face as he speaks. “I think they would happily make an exception for you.”

Her cheeks blaze, the flush traveling down her neck. “You would not dare,” she calls his bluff. 

He leans in further, until she cannot tell where she ends and he begins. “Try me.” She shudders.

He rises, suddenly, and she feels a chill run through her, from his words or the sudden lack of his body’s heat, she is not sure.

“You will accompany me to Grammaire,” he says, and she cannot help the sigh of relief that escapes. Nimue stands, straightening herself. “Not because of your juvenile attempt to manipulate me,” he clarifies, “but because I want nothing to do with your cursed sword and your people’s sorcery.”

“You will bring the sword back to the abbey, under my supervision.” He fixes her with a sinister stare, a promise. “And then, I will kill you.”

Nimue gulps. She is not in a position to argue--she has nothing left to bargain with. “When do we leave?” she asks weakly. 

****

He drags her reluctantly up the stairwell, releasing her only when they come upon the dim hall. “You will follow me without a word, are we understood?” She nods. Assured of her cooperation, he makes his way through the hall to the stables, the witch following close behind. 

They are nearly there when he is stopped by one of his brothers in red. “Where are you taking this one?” the man inquires, motioning toward the witch, still clothed in a nun’s habit. 

“We have business with my father,” the Monk states, hoping it is enough to satisfy the man’s curiosity. When his brother’s eyes narrow, he continues, “it seems she has some knowledge of the Wolf-Blood Witch.” 

His eyes widen. “In that case, make haste, brother,” the man admonishes him before continuing on his way. 

“You lie quite easily for a man of God,” the witch observes, mocking him.

He grabs her chin roughly. “What did I say about you speaking?” he demands, making sure she has no doubts about which of them is in control here. She stares at him, her hatred unmistakable. “That’s better.” He can see how his encouragement grates on her with the way she works her jaw after he releases her from his hold. He smirks, leading her the short distance to the stables. 

The Weeping Monk finds Goliath, smoothing a hand delicately over his sable mane. He eyes the woman beside him, this Wolf-Blood Witch. He so desperately wants to just kill her now and be done with it, but his father will want the Sword, and he has no desire to endure the journey back from Grammaire under its curious spell. He remembers the screams he had heard when he’d tried to take the blade from her. He shudders. He has no desire to repeat the experience, and so the witch will accompany him to Grammaire. Her fate was for his father to decide, once the Devil’s Tooth was safe in the church’s control. 

He takes some rope from his saddlebag, binding her hands. “Is this truly necessary?” the witch inclines her head toward her hands, clearly exasperated.

His hands on her waist, he throws her onto Goliath’s back, mounting behind her after he unhitches the reins from where they were secured. He leans into her, his voice low in her ear, one hand wrapped around her side to grip the reins. “Do not make the mistake of thinking I trust you, in any way, witch,” he rebukes, prodding Goliath into a trot. The pitch of night conceals Goliath’s departure as the Monk directs the beast toward Grammaire, witch in tow.


	4. With a Single Touch

They ride for a few hours, the moon high in the sky as the Monk navigates his horse painlessly through the dense forest. Nimue bristles under the weight of his hand, insistent in its placement just above her hip. She is locked in his grasp, his body enveloping hers, her hands bound. 

Nimue fights against the rope that binds her hands, testing the strength of his knot for what feels like the hundredth time. It does not so much as budge, as it hadn’t all the times before. She slides back in the saddle from the force of her struggle, brushing against him where she fits so snugly between his thighs. She hears him suck in a breath at the contact.  _ Curious.  _ Nimue repeats the motion, this time on purpose. 

His hand digs into her side, pushing her forward in the saddle. “Stop that,” he barks. 

“Stop what?” She is the picture of innocence, twisting around to face him, eyes wide, bottom lip trapped between her teeth. 

She does not miss the way his eyes drop to her lips, the barest of glances, before meeting her gaze. “You know what,” the Monk says, wanting to leave it at that as he turns her away from him. 

She sits forward obediently, letting him think he is safe. After several long moments, she slides back in the saddle, rubbing against him again. She cannot help herself; she wants to know what he’ll do. As she feels something stiff at the base of her spine, Nimue realizes she has grossly miscalculated. She had never been intimate with a man, what with the way all the men she knew thought her to be a witch. Still, she knew there were certain...physical realities that came with the territory; she thinks she just felt one of them. Her mind and body war in reaction, torn between blatant disgust and the oddest of thrills.

The Weeping Monk stops the horse with a jolt, and she instantly dismisses the outlandish thought from her head. He jumps to the ground, dragging her down with him. With one hand locked around the binding on her hands, his other makes quick work securing the horse's reins around a sturdy limb. “We’ll stop for the night, since you seem so determined to be difficult, witch.” He shoves her to the ground, looping a long rope around her middle, tethering her to a tree not far from the horse. The Monk tightens the rope with flair, then walks off to get a fire going.

He sits by his fire, just far enough from her to not offer any warmth. He is silent, likely meaning to ignore her after her earlier antics.  _ That won’t do. _

“You seem to have forgotten the part where I’m a  _ witch _ ,” she throws his word back at him with no small amount of venom. “I could break free from your bonds easily, should I wish it.” She takes an immense amount of pleasure from the smugness her words impart. 

He abandons the fire, kneeling by her side. His fingers trace a path from her temple to the hollow of her throat, mimicking the spreading vines that marked her curse. “And I would find you not long after,” he says, almost bored, “returning you to captivity which you would no doubt try to escape, until I tracked you down once again, trapping us in an infinite loop.” She chafes at his touch and way he doesn’t allow himself to be baited by her--at the way he is unperturbed by the threat of her.

“If you are so confident in your abilities, then why restrain me, at all?” Nimue asks, annoyed. 

He stands, walking back over to the fire he had built. “For my own amusement, I suppose,” he calls out over his shoulder. After a moment, he reclines, hands resting behind his head. His eyes close, face a mask of perfect serenity. “Sleep well, witch.”

_ That bastard.  _ If she didn’t get to sleep peacefully, neither did he. “How do you know I won’t just kill you while you sleep?”

The Monk does not so much as open an eye. “You won’t.” He sounds so certain.

“No?” Nimue challenges.

He sighs, sitting up to face her. “You had a chance already, and you didn’t.”

“You mean when you tried to steal my sword?” He only nods. “I panicked; you were terrifying before I got to know you.” she jokes, not truly knowing the real reason, herself. 

“You don’t know anything about me,” he bites back. 

“Maybe,” Nimue reflects. “But, by your own logic, I have nothing to fear from you.”

“How is that?”

“You have had numerous opportunities to kill me, yet you seem content to flirt instead.”

“Flirt?” the Monk demands, affronted. 

Nimue makes no attempt to disguise her mocking. “Well, a tragic facsimile of it, anyway.” She shrugs, as much as she can, restrained as she is. He rises, taking his place before her once more, anger and something indefinable alight in his eyes. “Tell me,” she implores, wetting her lips with her tongue, “am I the first girl to have touched you?” He says nothing, and that feels like an answer in itself. Nimue smirks. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He draws a dagger from his belt and she sobers immediately. She had gone too far. And now, he was going to kill her for it. Nimue meets his eye, determined not to cow before him, even if he did hold her life in his hands. “Do it, then.”

The Monk gives her a strange look before raising his blade. Her eyes close of their own volition, not wanting his face to be her last image of this world. She waits, but a blow never comes. She feels...free. Nimue opens her eyes, looking down to find her bonds cut. “Sleep, witch,” the Monk says before returning to his place by the fire. She stares after him, stunned. He never seemed to react as she anticipated, and that made him infinitely more dangerous in her eyes.

She settles on the fire’s opposite side, eyes not leaving his form; just because he had not killed her did not mean she trusted him. Eventually, Nimue feels her eyes start to shutter, exhausted to her very bones. “My name is Nimue,” she yawns. 

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. Just thought you’d like to know for when you tire of calling me  _ witch. _ ” He says nothing, simply studies her through the flames. “Goodnight, Lancelot,” she murmurs, his scowl the last thing she sees before sleep overtakes her.

****

_ Nimue.  _ He rolls over, restless.  _ Nimue. Nimue.  _ The ethereal whisper swirls in his unconscious mind, bidding him follow. He fits easily between the gap in the boulders, walls of towering stone surrounding him.  _ Nimue. _ He looks around, but he cannot find the source of the childish laughter.  _ Pym?  _ he questions, the unfamiliar name a whisper as he starts to feel frightened. He looks up, a dark, terrifying bear standing on its hind legs, foreboding. He tries to run, but the bear claws at him, ripping through the skin of his back, an inextinguishable pain. He sinks to his knees, frozen in fear. He’s desperate, calling out for help to anyone who will listen. His fingers dig into the earth, dirt making its home beneath his nails.  _ Rise.  _ He stands, his eyes closed, knowing this is the end. Of a sudden, a cliff drops, crushing the bear under its enormous weight. He falls to the ground once more, relieved, but in tremendous pain.  _ Nimue.  _

He shoots up, attempting to shake off the nightmare as his blinking eyes take in the faint light of the early morning sun. He still feels the pain, lingering in his back from his dream.  _ Her memory.  _

Was it not enough that he had to suffer her every waking hour? Now she was determined to haunt what little peace he found in sleep? Angrily, he crawls over to where she lies, shaking her violently. He would not suffer this alone. “What have you done to me?” the Monk demands. 

The witch opens her eyes slowly as awareness circulates through her limbs. She sits, rubbing her eyes. “What?” she looks at him, confused.

“Why did you show me that?”

“Show you what?” 

An echo of agony rips across his back. He can tell she feels the phantom pain, too.

Her eyes light in understanding. “So, you know my curse, then.”

“What I know,” he retorts, his hostility unbridled, “is that you have cursed  _ me _ somehow, linked my mind to yours with your sorcery, witch.”

“It does seem we are linked in some way,” she observes with frustrating nonchalance. 

“Undo it!” the Monk exclaims. 

She looks at him accusatorily. “I know as little about this as you do. Besides, none of this would have happened if you had kept your hands off me and my sword.”

He glares at her. “A mistake I will be sure not to make a second time. Now get up. It is still two days’ ride to Grammaire.” He stands, extinguishing what remains of the fire. “And the sooner I can kill you, the better,” the Weeping Monk mumbles as he readies Goliath for what is certain to be a long day.


	5. Grip

The Weeping Monk mounts the horse, sitting at the front of the saddle. Nimue looks up at him, confused, her hands bound once again. He pulls her up by the wrists, settling her behind him. “I’ll not have any more of your temptations today, witch.”

“What if I fall?” Nimue asks, already feeling a bit unsteady. The horse, much more gentle than his master, works up to a trot with a flick of the Monk’s heel. She sways a little with the movement, tightening her legs around his frame and leaning into his back to anchor herself. 

He pushes back at her closeness. “You won’t fall.”

They ride for a few hours like that, Nimue grasping for balance and the Monk resisting any hint of her touch. Then, his horse jumps to clear a felled tree, and Nimue goes tumbling to the ground. The impact is sharp, jolting, as she is unable to brace her fall with her hands bound. She can tell he feels the lack of her behind him immediately, stopping the beast in its tracks and rushing over to her. She thinks she sees concern, but it is quickly replaced by annoyance. He yanks her up by the wrists, loosing the tie that restrains her. “I’m fine, by the way,” she says as he drags her by the hand to where he had stopped the horse. He says nothing, just throws her up in the saddle and mounts in front of her, continuing on as if nothing had happened.

She clings to his back to keep her balance, and if she holds onto him a bit too tightly, it is only because falling off a horse once was one too many times for her. Nimue can tell he is strong, well-muscled beneath his mountain of dark clothing. Recalling the memory she had seen a few days ago, Nimue wonders how he had gone from a scrawny, smiling little boy to the well-trained killer before her now. She asks him as much. 

“I fail to see how that is any of your concern,” the Monk responds, somewhat defensive. 

Nimue prods his side. “You’ve seen the most scarring, formative part of my life,” Nimue says, referring to the dream that had woken him that morning. “It seems only fair I know as much about you.”

He turns to her, very obviously meaning to deny her request. “Did I miss the part where we suddenly became the best of friends who share our innermost secrets?”

“We could be friends,” she says, because she wants to be contrary, not because she means it. 

Nimue sees the way his eyebrows rise before he faces forward once more. “I do not have friends.”

It would be sad, his statement, if it were not basically true for her as well. She had maybe three friends, one of whom was a child, one who was likely dead, and the last who had stolen her sword, the one thing she had left of her mother. Upon re-evaluation, she was as friendless as him, although, if she had to guess, she would say that his solitude was largely because he preferred it that way. She does not let the matter drop, even if that is what he wants; they have hours more to go and Nimue can only stand so much of his hostile silence. “I could be your first friend.”

He scoffs. “And how many friendships do you know of that began with such obvious murderous intent?”

She laughs. “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous!”

“Would it be better if I said that your existence is incompatible with my belief system, thus making any friendship between us so incredibly far beyond the realm of impossibility?”

She pinches his arm. “You could have just said no.”

“I believe I did. Why are we even having this discussion?” he asks, exasperated.

“For my own amusement, mostly.” She thinks she hears the faintest of laughs escape him.

Nimue is determined to catch him off guard. It seems an impossible task. He is always ready, always two steps ahead of her. It’s unsettling. And so, she seeks to unsettle him, to put them on more even footing. “Unless there is another way you would rather pass the time?” she asks, suggestively, running a hand down the length of his spine.

He moves forward, evading her touch. “Do not make me bind your hands again, witch,” the Monk warns. 

Nimue ignores him, determined to test his limits. Only, this time, when she touches his back, she feels all conscious thought leave her, his memory consuming her mind.  _ He is on his knees in supplication, begging for something that seems to evade him no matter how hard he works for it. He looks up, desperate. “Please, Father.” A man in red tears the shirt from his body, and his muscles tighten in anticipation. He weeps, the scourge rearranging the flesh on his back as he laments the imperfections he cannot seem to shake. _

Nimue feels a tear trail down her cheek, and she wonders if it is hers or his. It had felt so real, like it had been her under the whip and not the man before her. “Lancelot,” she starts. 

“Don’t,” he bites. “Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Just--” his voice nearly breaks, “don’t.”

****

For once, the witch listens to him. It does not bring him any of the relief he had hoped for. She was seeing too much of him, things an enemy should not know. How soon before she knew his every weakness? It felt like she was already halfway there, calling him  _ Lancelot,  _ as though he could be a man deserving of a name and not the monster he had so carefully crafted in service of God. Why had the Sword’s sorcery bound them together in such an irrevocable way, intent on exposing every vulnerability, every painful memory he wished to keep hidden? It was only a matter of time before she found out what he truly was. He had heard the pity in her voice after she had seen him scourged. How much more would she latch on to that if she knew his abominable truth? And why, did he think it would be that much harder to kill her once she knew they shared this intrinsic, elemental foundation? He is determined to maintain his distance from her, as much as he can manage with her as his captive, but somehow, in his very soul, he knows there will be no escaping her.

They ride through the night in tense, but blessed silence. He cannot bring himself to stop; he does not want to face her and whatever insight she thinks she has gained into his life, so they continue on the road to Grammaire, Goliath moving at the slowest of paces. By the light of the moon, he feels her tired body collapse against his back, her arms looped around his middle to prevent another tumble from Goliath’s back. He squirms at her touch, but he lets her be--she cannot pester him if she’s sleeping. They go for hours, the moon finally descending into twilight.

The Monk rubs his eyes as light begins to filter through the trees, determined to deny sleep its hold for a few more hours still. He feels her waking, the yawn she emits reverberating through his body. “Born in the dawn,” she murmurs, still half gripped by sleep. He hates the way the response echoes in his mind after so many years of disuse. He pushes Goliath to a trot. With the distance they had travelled in the night, it would not be far to Grammaire now. In a few hours, Goliath could enjoy a well-deserved rest while he scoped out the town for signs of the thief. Perhaps he would rest, himself, he thinks, the witch’s yawn taking hold of him.  _ On a nice feather bed. _ He smiles sleepily at the thought. What was one indulgence in the scheme of his greater pursuit, after all?

“What do you mean to do to Arthur when you find him?” the witch asks, breaking the silence that he had come to appreciate while she slept.

“Your thief?” he scoffs. “I should have thought that would be obvious to you by now.”

“You cannot kill him!” she protests.

“Oh, I can,” he retorts, “and very easily, at that.”

He can practically feel her eyes boring through his skull with the glare he is certain she is aiming his way. He should not get such pleasure from antagonizing her, but it was quickly becoming one of his favorite hobbies. He shakes his head, dismissing the thought. She would be dead soon--there was no use thinking anything about her.

“At least let me speak with him, reason with him,” she bargains, as though the matter were open for negotiation. 

“Look, I am not here to help you preserve your friendship with a man who is so obviously unworthy of it,” he starts. “Besides, I haven’t killed anyone in a few days. I could use the practice.”

The witch boxes his ears at his snarky reply, the blow stinging despite the barrier his hood provides. “Why are you trying so hard to prove to me that you’re a monster?” she asks, frustrated.

“I should not have to try so hard to get you to accept what is so plain before you,” he counters, meaning to quell once and for all any illusions she had about him from the memories she had intruded upon. 

“Nothing is plain before me,” she mumbles, the words barely audible, not meant for him. 

_ On that, at least, we are agreed.  _

Before long, he can see the gates of Grammaire outlined before him. He breathes a sigh of relief, one step closer to retrieving the Sword and being rid of the witch who consumes his mind. The witch who knows his scars, knows his name. God help him.


	6. Warmth

He dismounts as they come upon the gate, offering a hand to the witch. If he is more gentle with her, it is only so as not to draw any undue attention. Grammaire is crawling with Paladins, like ants from a hill. As he had not exactly cleared this particular part of his plan with his father, he’d prefer to conduct his activities without his brothers noticing. He maintains his hold on her hand, pulling her into his side before she can get any ideas. “Keep your head down and stay silent.” 

The witch rolls her eyes at him. “Now, how did I know that was how you preferred your women?” He tightens his grip on her fingers, an expression of his frustration. “Alright, alright, I get it,” she says, trying to shake free of his hold, “don’t draw attention to myself.”

He removes the covering from her head, her hair cascading in waves around her shoulders and down her back. He fights the temptation to run his fingers through its length; he was a master of self-denial at this point. “Much better.” She raises a brow at that. “I cannot exactly inquire about a room at the inn, nun in tow, now can I?”

He doesn’t miss the slight twitch of her lips before she responds. “I suppose not.” She laces her fingers through his, looking up at him, expectantly. “Lead on, then.”

One hand entwined with hers, the other gripping the reins, the Monk directs them toward a stone structure a rough wood sign marks as an inn. He hands the stableboy a coin, followed by Goliath’s reins. Pushing on the inn’s wooden door, he enters, the witch a step behind him. “A room, if you please,” he asks of the inkeep, to the point, but not impolite. The woman looks him over, and he can tell she is perturbed by the dark hood that obscures his face, even this close. “My wife and I are weary from days of travel,” the Monk lies. “We heard your establishment is the best Grammaire has to offer,” he throws in the flattery for good measure. 

He sees the woman softening, ignoring the witch’s vise-like grip on his hand at the ruse. “I have just the room for you,” she says, leading them up the stairs. They stop at the last door in the hall, an intricate tapestry adorning the wall across. The inkeep opens the door, motioning for them to enter. “Are you in Grammaire for the tournament?” she inquires, a harmless curiosity.  _ The tournament.  _ He meets the witch’s eye--that was where they would find the thief.

“Yes,” he responds, easily. “One of my oldest friends is competing.” The Monk hands her several coins, probably more than are necessary, hoping to engender her further goodwill. “Thank you ever so much for your kindness,” he says, smiling like it is the most natural thing in the world for him. The inkeep closes the door behind her, footfalls becoming less pronounced as she returns down the stairs. 

“Your wife?” the witch questions when they are alone in the room. “That seems like wishful thinking on your part.”

He scoffs. “It was the explanation least likely to garner suspicion. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Flattered is not the word I would use,” she mumbles, plopping down on the bed in the corner.  _ His  _ bed. 

“Kindly remove yourself from my bed, witch.”

“ _ Your  _ bed?”

“Who paid for the room?”

“Who destroyed all my worldly possessions and abducted me with nothing but this disguise to my name?” she demands, motioning toward her habit. 

_ When she put it that way… _ Still, he’d had waking dreams about this bed after hours on Goliath’s back, and he would not let her deny him this comfort. He kicks off his boots, reclining on the side of the bed she does not occupy. He curls up on his side, facing her. Surely she would move.

She does not. She lies down beside him instead. “It seems there is plenty of room for the two of us.”

“You will sleep next to me over my dead body,” the Monk says, firm.

“That can be arranged,” she retorts, rolling over to meet his eyes in challenge.

Arguing with the witch is exhausting, and he desperately needs sleep as it is. “Fine,” he caves after a long moment. “But you will stay on your side.”

“That was never in question,” the witch yawns with seeming disinterest. 

“I would not put it past you to try to use your charms to seduce me,” the Monk utters sleepily, catching her yawn.

“I was merely testing you for weaknesses,” she admits, “don’t flatter yourself.” They lay in silence for a few moments, a blessed relief after her ceaseless yammering. “You think me charming?” the witch asks after a beat, the barest of smirks lighting her lips.

“For a demon,” he replies instantly, but the accusation lacks much of the hostility it had possessed only a few days before. He blames the tiredness. 

She rolls over, away from him. “Sweet dreams, Lancelot.”

He smiles, despite himself. He blames the tiredness for that, too.

****

_ He feels like he’s burning. He cannot move, cannot fight. Can only feel the flames licking his skin, his own hands nailed to the cross meant to purge the world of sin.  _

He shoots up with a start, but waking provides no escape from the heat. His shirt clings to him, soaked in sweat beneath the heavy cloak he had fallen asleep in. He discards the cloak, his shirt following not far behind. The air was sticky, but worlds better than the weight of his clothing. He breathes in relief, lying back down to attempt a more peaceful sleep. This time when he dreams, there is no fire. There is only  _ home,  _ his home, by the tranquil waters of a secluded lake.

****

The Monk is slow to arrive at consciousness come morning, lingering in the comfortable state between sleeping and waking where all was well with the world, where nothing was complicated. He is warm and well-rested, despite the night terror that had threatened to keep him awake. Comfort, in a way he had never known, wraps around him, embracing him as the first hint of sunlight starts to filter through his still-closed eyes. He relishes it, the warmth, wants to bask in it for eternity, but as awareness begins to cut through the clouds in his mind, he knows he has something to accomplish today. His eyes open and he is back, returned to a world that hates him.  _ Then why do I still feel the warmth?  _ He looks down, finding the witch’s head on his chest, her hands holding firmly to his bare skin.  _ It seems she cannot resist tempting me, even in sleep.  _

He should remove himself, detach her limbs from where they cling to him, like barnacles to a ship, but he does not. The Monk studies her, revelling in the way it feels to lie beside a woman. This was something he had vowed never to do, but a part of him--the damned part, he’s certain--feels no guilt, no shame. Only warmth. He has so much for which to repent as it is; what’s another sin added to the list? Of their own volition, his fingers card through her long brown hair which sleep had swept to the side. He gently works through a knot that inhibits his clear path, satisfied when her tresses fall untangled. He is so absorbed in the feel of her hair on his skin, that he does not see her eyes flutter open, taking in her unfamiliar surroundings. 

“What in the nine hells do you think you are doing?” the witch demands, startling him. He withdraws his hand from her as though it’s been burned. 

“There is only one hell,” he says, untangling himself from her, far less gentle in his movements than he had been with her hair, “and I am trapped in it with you.” His biting tone does nothing to distract her from the flush that starts high in his cheeks and travels down to stain the bare skin of his chest.

The witch sits up, facing him. “It really seemed like you were being tormented just then,” she mocks. “And, what happened to ‘you will stay on your side,’ anyway?” she asks, reminding him of his words the night before. 

“You’re the one who was clinging to me,” he accuses, trying to absolve himself. “Like some demon temptress in the night, trying to sway me into forsaking my vows.” 

The witch laughs in disbelief, motioning to his state of dishabille. “You’re the one who is undressed!”

He looks down to where he had discarded his cloak and tunic with so little care in the night. “I had a dream,” he starts, feeling flustered, unhinged; he needs to take back the control she has stolen from him. “I do not need to explain myself to you, witch,” he spits, returning to the comfort, the certainty of his hostility for her. 

“Perhaps not,” she begins, the words slow and torturous coming from her mouth as she rises to her knees, closing the distance between them. “But from where I stand,” he feels her breath on his face, “it does not seem it would take much temptation on my part for you to forget your vows.”

The Monk breathes in sharply. The witch was just trying to torment him, tempt him; she could not possibly know how true that was. She had bewitched him, somehow, all but convinced him in this moment to abandon his commitment to God for a single taste of her cursed lips. He tries to force the thought from his mind, remembering her for the demon she was. His eyes bore into hers. “I would sooner die.”

She moves closer, her lips brushing his ever so slightly with her words. “That can be arranged.” 

He shivers at the touch, his body betraying his will. “Nimue--” He doesn’t know what he means to say, but before he can figure it out, her lips are on his in earnest. 

****

Nimue has no earthly idea what led her to this. Perhaps it was a way to exert control over him. Perhaps it was the way he had said her name, so unfamiliar, almost delicate coming from his mouth. Either way, she leans into him, her unpracticed lips insistent on his. She is certain he will not respond, will just sit there stunned still until she can handle the embarrassment no longer. Was she so desperate for a man’s attention that she would throw herself at this monk, her enemy? No, it was more than that. It was the way she felt fundamentally connected to him despite their diametrical differences, seen by him in a way she had never known. 

Nimue feels his mouth move against hers, finally, far more gentle than she had thought him capable. She does not know what she had expected, but it was certainly not the way his hands were soft, framing her face with care as he tests out the foreign motion in which his lips are engaged. She clings to him, her fingers tracing the scars on his back, a careful study of the many hills and valleys of marred skin. 

As sudden as it had begun, it was over, the Monk pushing her away, rising in a hurry and pacing at the other side of the room. A hand to his mouth, he looks to her, as if not believing what he has just done. “No.” It is a whisper, a prayer, a denial.

“Lancelot,” she starts, rising to follow him. She does not know what she means to say, but it does not matter; he does not give her a chance to speak.

“No. Not another word from you, witch.” She is not surprised by his return to hostility and insults; it was plain as day the kiss had unsettled him, and he was desperately seeking to regain some semblance of control over the situation. He grabs her by the chin, commanding her. “You will not touch me again.” Nimue wants to argue, wants to point out that he had been a willing participant, but she knows it will have little impact on his zealous mind. He drops his hand, releasing her, as though disgusted to be touching her, a stark contrast to his tender hold not moments before. 

“You will accompany me to the tournament today,” the Monk states, leaving no room for discussion. “We will retake your sword, and then I will deliver you and that cursed instrument to my father, ridding me of your influence once and for all.” 

Well, she certainly would not make it that easy for him.


	7. To the Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my very poor attempt at writing a fight, lol, just had to move the plot along.

The Monk returns his cloak to his shoulders, desperate to escape the room, escape the memory of her touch, the sweet sin of her lips on his.  _ Enough.  _ He keeps his hood down, untying his hair and arranging it to cover the recognizable brand etched into his scalp. Today, he means not to intimidate, but to blend in, the idea so foreign, strange to him. Ready, he exits the room, trusting the witch will follow not far behind. He looks over his shoulder when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, and sure enough, there she is, two steps behind him. He grasps her hand, forcefully, as they pass the inkeep. “Thank you once again, for your hospitality,” he tells her, a disingenuous smile spread across his lips. 

She smiles in return. “Enjoy the tournament!” 

“I am sure we will,” the Monk responds, leading the witch out the door with a tug of his hand. Immediately, they are swept up in a crowd of people, all making their way to the lord’s manor for the tournament. At least this part of the plan, the getting there, would be easy. He still was not sure how he wanted to go about the rest of it. They follow the masses, eventually arriving at some wooden steps, meant for the spectators. The Monk sits beside her, at the end of a row, and they wait in silence for the festivities to begin. 

He fully intends to put his trespass from his mind, to shore up his defenses against the witch’s many temptations and carry on hating her. And it was easy to hate her--she drew out the parts of himself he hated most, he who was demon-born, an abomination. He feels her pulse where their hands are still connected, the rhythm mixing in syncopation with his own. It’s discord, not harmony, what thrums between them, and it is this on which he chooses to focus, pulling his hand from hers. She simply looks ahead, seemingly unbothered by the thoughts which captivate so much of his attention. 

They watch a few matches, chivalrous knights fighting with honor to the tune of swooning maidens looking on. He offers the occasional encouragement or celebration, so as not to stand out, but it is all so...strange, this idea of fighting not to kill, but for entertainment. The witch seems equally unimpressed, looking on with little expression, until the next pair enters the pit and he sees her perk up ever so slightly. He takes in the men preparing to fight, eyes following hers to settle on the dark-skinned man twirling a most impressive sword. A sword he had stolen. The thief is quick in his movements, sharp, making light work of his opponent. From the corner of his eye, he sees something like relief escape the witch at the thief’s victory. He wonders at her connection to this man, wonders if she cares for him. Something akin to jealousy rises up like bile in him, and he is quick to dismiss it. 

After a few more rounds, one of the finalists has been determined, and the thief vies for the final spot. The Monk is certain the thief-- _ Arthur,  _ she had called him--will win, and an idea takes form. “Stay here,” he tells her, rising. 

She eyes him, suspicious. “Where are you going?” He gives no answer, just makes to move away from the crowd. She rises, meaning to follow him, despite his request that she do exactly the opposite.

“For the love of God almighty, just stay here,” he commands, but it feels more like a plea, nearly at his wits’ end. 

She narrows her eyes at him, but she returns to her seat as he departs to set his plan in motion.

****

Arthur wins the fight. Nimue is not surprised; she had seen his prowess with a sword firsthand, after all. He remains in the pit, catching his breath before he is to face his final opponent. She takes her eyes off Arthur, trying to find where the Monk had disappeared to. Without his hood and his trademark scowl, he was far less conspicuous in a crowd, as he had no doubt intended. Surely he did not mean to leave her here, did he? No. He was far too determined to see her die at the hands of his father for that. He was no doubt off pursuing some plan, one he had not felt the need to tell her about it.

She turns her attention back to the pit, hearing the hush of whispers among the crowd, focusing in on the look of confusion marring Arthur’s once smiling face. He points his sword-- _ her  _ sword, she corrects herself--at the man across from him, but it is not the man who had won the spot.  _ What is going on? _ The chatter in the crowd grows louder, turning into a roar when the man raises his own sword in opposition.

She almost does not recognize him without the hood, his hair falling carelessly across his forehead. Even so, she knows it is him the second he advances toward Arthur, his stance daunting and predatory. How had he managed this? Nimue imagines the rightful competitor bleeding out somewhere close by and thinks maybe it is better if she does not know. 

The crowd, initially outraged at the Monk’s usurpation, roar in an entirely new way when it becomes clear that this match-up promises to be far more entertaining. The men exchange blows, their strikes lightning fast as the clash of steel on steel echoes throughout the pit. Arthur strikes anew, hard and fast, but the Monk flips, an effortless, fluid motion, deflecting the blow midair. His feet land in the dirt to astonished shouts and supportive chanting.  _ He’s certainly putting on a show.  _

They carry on, neither able to outwit the other, locked in a long string of parries and blocks, until Arthur knocks the sword from the Monk’s hand. Nimue gasps along with the crowd. It was over, then. 

Not one to give up easily, the Monk grabs hold of Arthur’s sword hand, trying to neutralize the man’s advantage. They struggle, a battle of pure strength, as the Monk refuses to yield. He knocks his head against Arthur’s, distracting him long enough to seize the sword and shove him to the dirt. Ironic that a knock to the head would be the move that incapacitates Arthur, she thinks, remembering their brief flirtation before she had left to find her village ablaze.

Nimue feels her blood hum as the Monk points the sword at Arthur’s throat, pure, unadulterated power coursing through her veins. The crowd is silent, waiting for the end. It’s the barest of utterances, Arthur’s “yield,” before the crowd erupts into chaotic celebration. 

****

The Monk feels something electric buzzing through him, the Sword in his hand again. He wants nothing more than to end the man at the blade’s end, but he cannot exactly do that with hundreds of people looking on. He sheathes the sword, the urge to kill tempered. He extends a hand to the thief, pulling him out of the dirt. 

“My sword, tavern brawler?” the thief demands. 

“I think I’ll keep it,” the Monk says, fingers stroking the handle as if considering.

Arthur scoffs, extending an expectant hand as if he had been joking. When it becomes clear he will not hand over the sword, the thief glares at him in anger. “What right do you think you have to my sword, after you robbed me of my rightful victory? Have you no honor?”

The Monk eyes him, pointedly. “I could hardly let you win a tournament with a sword you’ve stolen from a naive Fey girl. That would hardly be...honorable.” He is slow with his final word, letting the insult sink in.

Arthur’s eyes flash, affronted, then concerned. “Where is Nimue? What have you done to her?”

“She is--”

“Right here, you bastard,” the witch spits, sidling up to his side.  _ If looks could kill… _

“Nimue,” the thief starts, relieved. “Thank goodness you are alright.”

She looks so annoyed that he could dare express concern for her wellbeing after his betrayal. The Monk shares her sentiment. “No thanks to you, thief.”

The man turns to him once more. “I do not remember asking your opinion. Who are you to Nimue, anyway?”

The Monk considers the man’s question, the answer not so clear in his mind as it had been a few days ago. He goes with the simple response, what his father would have him say. “If all goes well, her executioner.”

Arthur’s eyes widen at that, returning his attention to the witch, “Nimue, what have you gotten yourself into?”

She glares at him. “You mean what have  _ you  _ gotten me into? I seem to recall this being entirely your fault.” The thief opens his mouth to offer a rebuttal, but the witch does not give him a chance to defend himself. “Now, if you want to keep your life, you will let us leave without protest.” It is not a question, and the Monk is almost impressed by her stern, unforgiving attitude. The witch turns on her heel, not sparing the thief another glance. The Monk replaces his hood, moving to follow her. 

“You’re not safe with him, Nimue!” Arthur calls out to her departing back.  _ Well, that is certainly true.  _ “Let me come with you, help you bring the Sword to Merlin,” he offers. 

Merlin. He had heard his father speak of the greatest Fey sorcerer, untouchable in his service to Uther Pendragon. He files the information, her true quest, away, suspecting it will be of use to him in the future.

The Monk turns to face Arthur once more. “I am in control here, not the witch.” He steps closer, menacing. “And if I see your face again, I will kill you.” There is no subtlety to the threat, no room for confusion. The thief nods, reluctant in his agreement, letting the Monk and his witch disappear into the crowd.

They make their way through the excitable throng, people chattering about thrilling moments and wondering aloud where the mysterious victor had gone. “You seem to have made quite an impression,” the witch comments, and if he did not know better, he’d think her impressed with him. “How did you manage to insert yourself into the tournament, anyway?” she asks, suspicion coloring her tone.

He looks straight ahead, weaving through the thinning crowd as they near the stable. “I told him that I would be fighting in the knight’s place. I knew his honor would prevent him from claiming victory on a technicality,” he scoffs, making it clear what he thinks about the man’s honor. 

“And the knight?” She’s hesitant in her inquiry, likely assuming that he had killed the man. It was a fair assumption; in the past, he likely would not hesitate to end a man’s life if it served his greater purpose, his calling. But, something had stayed his hand today. His eyes take in the soft outline of her face, the fullness of her lips.  _ Something, indeed.  _

“I imagine he’ll be waking soon,” the Monk says, shrugging. “Though, he’ll have a terrible pain in his head.” He sees her lips tilt up just slightly, briefly, and his follow suit, despite his best efforts to remain stoic in her presence.

He retrieves Goliath from the stable boy, leading him to the gates of Grammaire. He had retrieved the Sword, and he had the witch as a captive. Now, all that remained was returning both to the abbey. He is in control, has every advantage here, yet somehow he feels more the unwitting prisoner than her. 

****

Nimue settles behind the Monk in the saddle, not looking forward to the days of riding ahead, or what would greet her at their end. While it is some small relief to be in possession of the Sword once more-- _ well, nearly _ , she thinks, eying the blade where it sits at his hip--she was still no closer to fulfilling her mother’s final commission. If the Monk had his way, she never would. 

She considers the man before her, monstrous and intent on escorting her to her death. But, she has also seen him gentle.  _ Protective, even,  _ she thinks, recalling the way he had defended her against Arthur. It was becoming harder for her to see him as a monolith, her enemy. Even more confusing was the way they seemed to share consciousness, feeling, memory. She’s reminded of the thrill of power that had rushed through her when he had finally wielded the sword. “What did you feel,” she asks him, “when you held the Sword?”

He turns to her, his hood falling back with the movement. “I felt like I was holding a sword.” His flippant response is not enough to conceal the strange look that passes over his features before he faces forward once more. 

“When I held it,” Nimue starts, “I felt pure power coursing through my veins, and the urge to kill, mercilessly.” It had terrified her and strengthened her all at once, a blessing and a curse.

“It must amplify your evil nature,” the Monk comments lazily, refusing to engage in anything resembling meaningful conversation with her. She appeases him, for a time, watching the trees pass in a blur as he pushes the horse faster still. Yet, she cannot put the thought from her mind: he had felt the rush of power, the corruption, too. She knew it in her bones.

“What does that say about your nature, then, that you felt the same way?” He runs a hand through his hair, almost...nervous, stopping awkwardly when his fingers expose a patch of bald skin. She takes in a sharp breath, seeing the mutilation that marked his devotion. His faith was carved into him, body, mind, and soul.

“I felt nothing,” he says, defensive, but he cannot lie, not to her.

“I felt your exhilaration as if it were my own,” Nimue grabs hold of his arm, “could sense you a half second away from killing Arthur.”

“What does that have to do with the Sword?” he asks, defiant, bringing the horse to a stop. “I’m a killer, by nature.” He shrugs, “and I really just do not like that man.”

Nimue sighs in frustration. “Joke all you want, but you cannot deny your connection to it.” She pauses, tightening her grip on his arm subconsciously. “To me.”

He looks at her then, a hint of conflict in his eyes before he snuffs it out. “With any luck, that won’t be my concern for much longer.”

Nimue is desperate, and not only for the sake of saving her own life. “You cannot give the sword over to your father.”

“I must,” he says, emotionless, preparing to continue their journey.

“Lancelot,” she pleads, tracing the instrument of torture, of salvation that mars his scalp. _ A bright light, a searing pain _ , and then, as though struck, they both fall to the ground. As Nimue rights herself, a task which is much easier without her hands bound, her eyes settle on the Monk’s hand braced to the earth, a smaragdine hue coloring his skin. He lifts his hand from the ground as though he had placed it in burning coals. She sees the sheer terror in his eyes, a dark secret exposed.  _ He’s Feykind. _


	8. The Descent

Nimue stands, struck dumb by the revelation.  _ He’s Fey? But how could he…?  _ “Lancelot,” she starts, reaching for him. 

He swats her hand away, responding in equal parts anger and fear. “That’s not my name. That’s not who I am.” He paces, trying desperately to regain control, but Nimue refuses to let it go. 

“Lancelot,” she tries again.

He interrupts her, not wanting to hear whatever it is she was about to say. “It’s my destiny to eliminate the Fey, it always has been.”

She thinks about destiny then, about how he had come crashing into her life, entwining himself where he did not belong. “I don’t think it is, Lancelot,” she says, holding on to his hand despite the way he tries to shake her loose. “I think there was a reason you found me,” she meets his eyes, searching, “some destiny that we are meant to share.” Something deep in her is certain of it. Had only grown more certain the more she learned of him.

He shakes his head, refusing to accept that this could be true. “No. I am a demon, and my only purpose in life is to hunt and kill other demons.”

Her heart breaks at how he clings to the lies, at how desperately he needs for them to be true. “Why are you pretending to be something you are not?”

“I am not pretending to be anything,” he argues, impassioned, “this is who I am.”

Nimue plucks a leaf from a branch over his shoulder, touching it gently to the hand she still holds. “This is who you are.” They both look on as his skin changes to resemble the leaf’s surface. Why do you pretend?” She asks again.

He recoils from her touch, from the revelation of his true nature. “Because every time I think about it, the truth of what I am, I can feel myself moving further and further away from God, from salvation.”

It is the first truly honest thing he has said to her, the most feeling he has shown. “You should not have to deny who you are to earn the love of your God,” Nimue tries to convince him. 

“You know nothing of my God.”

“Maybe not,” Nimue agrees, “but it does not seem a God who would have you deny your nature, deny what he created you to be, is a God worthy of your love and devotion.” He says nothing, but she can see his mind working, searching for a way to refute her. She speaks before he can find words. “I can see the way you hold everything in, hiding behind your bravado and your sarcasm while the conflict eats away at your insides. Don’t you want to just  _ live,  _ to not have to deny your every instinct, your every feeling?”

“My instincts are evil, as is my nature. To do anything else, to be anything else, would be to sin against God.” The hollowness, the monotony of his voice indicates he is repeating something he must have heard hundreds of times, internalized as absolute truth.

Nimue feels an intense hatred flare up in her toward whoever had convinced him these words were true. She brings a hand to his face, tracing every line of the ashen tears beneath his eye. Her blood sings with something ancient, magical, at the touch. “Surely this could not be a sin,” Nimue whispers, her eyes trying to communicate a truth he would not accept in her words. She sees the smallest of slivers of his heart in his eyes, broken and desperately seeking something that will make him feel whole. Her thumb brushes his bottom lip, her eyes never leaving his, afraid if they do...well, just afraid. 

“Nimue,” he breathes, her name part plea, part hesitation, but wholly sweet, soft from his lips. 

When she kisses him, it is not to prove a point or to tempt him to distraction. This time, she kisses him because she feels if she doesn’t, her veins will burst.

He responds tentatively at first, his lips moving slowly against hers. It is unfamiliar territory for them both, but nothing about it feels wrong, like a mistake. She leans into him, hands traveling up to tangle in his still loose hair. It is soft between her fingers, and she sighs against his mouth.

His arms circle around her lower back, pulling her closer to him as he deepens the kiss. Had it only been a few days ago that he had choked the breath from her lungs? Now, he stole her breath in an entirely different way.

****

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t care. Lancelot only cares about the way she feels against him, like she is the piece he has been missing for so long. He feels her tongue tickle his upper lip, so he opens his mouth to her on instinct, his tongue stroking hers with a delicious, wet heat. Nimue moans into his mouth, the sound, the sensation pure sin for which he has no desire to repent. The only thing he desires is more of her. He’d damn himself to hell if it meant he could feel her embrace for a single moment longer. 

_ No.  _ He could not just listen to his desire, his feelings. He knew they would never satisfy him, would only lead him to destruction. It’s what he has been told all his life. Lancelot pushes her away, breathing heavily. “This does not change anything,” he tells her. “I cannot be what you want me to be.”

Her face betrays no emotion, but he can feel her disappointment radiating through the air, seeping into his pores. She pulls the Sword from his sheath before his mind can process the action. The blade pointed at his throat, he hears the whispers swirl in the air between them, feels her confusion, her desperation as she considers what to do next. “And I can’t let my mother down,” she says, green vines snaking from her neck to her temples as she traps him once more with her magic. 

He struggles, but she’s bound him tight. He’s been so weak already, he cannot bear to display more of his true nature to her. “I will find you, Nimue,” he promises, following her with his eyes as she mounts Goliath, Sword in her grasp.

She looks down at him, a sad smile on her lips. “I know.” With a flick of her heel, Goliath starts moving. “Until we meet again, Lancelot,” she says, before fading into the trees.

****

How had he let this happen? One minute he’d had the witch and the Sword, and the next, both were gone, along with his horse. And, to make matters worse, she now knows his secret. If revealed, the information would invalidate any efforts he’d ever made to serve God. Even his father likely could not convince the Paladins to work alongside a demon such as himself. 

He curses the witch, curses himself. He wishes he had never set off after her, that he had hunted down the stragglers instead, or pursued whatever mission he had deemed too boring at the time. It is rather ironic--if he had not been so obsessed with advancing on the path to salvation, he would have continued to be a faithful servant whose secret remained safe. Instead, he had been mystically linked to a dangerously appealing Fey girl, one who repeatedly tempted him to forsake his vows, one who knew more about him than any other living soul.

_ Nimue.  _ He can still taste her on his tongue, sweet and so utterly irresistible. There had been no conscious thought, nothing but the overwhelming desire to be closer to her, to share in the affection she gave so freely. She awakened things in him that had long lied dormant. When was the last time he had given himself over to feeling, let emotion drive him? Not since he was a child, he is sure; he remembers so vividly the way they beat the sentiment from him, the catechisms he had memorized to remind him to stay strong against wayward thoughts and feelings.

Her effect on him was insidious. She made him feel as though being with her, caring for her could never be wrong, even as the rational part of him knew he was walking headlong into sin. The rest of him was quick to abandon promises he’d made to himself, to God, unable to resist her siren’s call. Clarity had returned, eventually, but Lancelot cannot help but feel that maybe there was no coming back from a fall like this.  _ No.  _ There has to be. The Church is all he has. Certainly God, in all his mercy, could forgive him even this.

He wallows in self-loathing, hating that once again, the witch has forced him to rely on his demon side to escape her sorcery. He breaks her bonds, rising to his feet and considering his next move. She would try to find Merlin, bring the Sword to him; it’s the only thing that truly matters to her. Did she know of his service to the Pendragon king? He’s not sure. What he does feel certain of is that she will seek out what remains of her people for help. 

He feels no guilt when he steals a horse from a farmer on his way to Grammaire, single-minded in his pursuit of Nimue as he is. Lancelot rides furiously toward Hawksbridge, knowing she’ll return somewhere familiar to begin her search.

****

Nimue needs help. She knows nothing of this Merlin her mother had bid her deliver the Sword to, has no idea where to begin to look for him. Perhaps some of the Fey elders could help her in her quest, if they had survived. They could not have gone far, the way the Paladins haunted the woods, hunting. She rides toward Hawksbridge, feeling just the smallest sliver of hope that she can fulfill her mother’s dying wish.

She rides through the night, pushing the Monk’s horse as fast as he can go. The beast responds to her with ease, not caring that she had betrayed his master, a fact she is certain would irk Lancelot to no end. Although, could it really be considered a betrayal to escape a kidnapper? Somehow, it felt like it, leaving him the way she did after what had happened between them.

She had kissed him twice in the span of a single day, and not borne from some foolish attempt to sway his loyalty as she had tried to convince herself that morning. No, she had kissed him because she wanted to, because she needed to. It was terrifying how she needed him, this man who was so determined to make himself her enemy, despite what burned between them.

He had been so close to something today, so close to questioning, to reconsidering how he had spent his life. She’d felt it pulsing through his skin as his hands held to her. He needed her, too, in that moment, and she had wanted nothing more than to help him, to make him see he wasn’t the demon he believed himself to be. But, then he had pulled away, his stoic mask returning to quell any emotion their embrace had drawn out of him. 

Why did the Hidden bond her so irrevocably to this man? This man she wanted to hate, but couldn’t. This man who had committed unspeakable acts against her people, his own kind. And what part did the Sword play in all of this? Why link them at all if the Sword was meant to find its way to Merlin? There is something unsettling about it, the whisper of destiny that grows louder with Lancelot near. She was never meant to be anyone important; she’s just Nimue, an outcast, a reject, a nobody. Why, then, does it feel as though she is meant to determine the fate of the world, a reluctant monk at her side? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot is killing me.


	9. A Deadly Duality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *some canonically appropriate violence. Also, some sweet, sweet suffering.

Lancelot knows he is not far behind her. He can feel her, and he senses Goliath near, his longtime companion. He chafes at the betrayal. Even his horse could not resist the Fey girl, it seems. He is reminded once again of the taste of her lips, the feel of her body beneath his hands. The thoughts linger, taking root in his mind much like the way her vines had embedded themselves in his brother at the abbey. He is unable to forget life before her embrace, to reset his mind to when he did not know her. She’s left an indelible mark on him, and he knows, inexplicably, that she will find some way to haunt him until the end of his days.

He shakes his head in an attempt to clear that which is all but a part of his brain now. He has to get that Sword. He has to return the witch to his father, even if the small, sinfully selfish part of him wants to keep her for himself.  _ How ridiculous.  _ He is a Monk, a servant of God. He must put all this foolishness from his mind and center himself on his goal, the reason he had set off in the first place. Capture the witch, get closer to salvation. That is what he needs,  _ all  _ he needs. Not to memorize every curve of her lips, or learn the way the skin behind her ear, down her neck, on her collarbone tastes.  _ Sweeter than honey, no doubt.  _

He pushes the horse faster, ignoring the way his body reacts to thoughts of her his traitorous mind did not have the fortitude to suppress. It’s like she owns him, controls him, even when she is not around. He tells himself he hates it, hates her, but he knows that is not entirely true; he hates himself for that, more than anything.

His ears catch what sounds vaguely like laughter. Human, he gathers, the scent burning in his nostrils. But, there is something else, something elemental, indescribable.  _ Nimue. _

****

Nimue hears laughter floating on the breeze as the horse trots through the trees, hears the babbling of a nearby creek. With a click of her tongue, she brings Goliath to a halt, securing his reins to a tree not far off the path. Sword in hand, she heads toward the laughter, making sure to stay hidden in the trees. She looks down at the creek, red-robed zealots enjoying a break from the day’s heat. Her hand tightens around the Sword’s pommel and she sees red as anger overtakes her. How dare these men sit about and laugh after the way they had slaughtered her people?

Before she can think better of it, she is making her way down to the creek, far enough from the Paladins that they do not see her coming. She has no plan, is not sure what instinct drives her. As if possessed, she submerges herself deep in the water, staying there, drifting, for what feels like far longer than her lungs can handle. Finally, she sees the face of a demon, studying his own reflection in the water’s surface. His brows crinkle as if seeing something out of place.

She rises from the water like an explosion, her blade entering the man’s throat and coming out the top of his skull. His eyes would forever remain wide, confused, horrified.  _ Good,  _ she thinks, turning to the next paladin. Nimue swings with all her might, but the strength is not her own as she cuts into the man before her, effortless in her execution.

****

_ His heart races, fear quickly transforming to anger, to vengeance, to bloodlust as he draws the Sword in the face of his enemy. _ She is near. He can feel it. And she’s in danger. The Monk feels death wash over him, feels a heart stop beating. Or maybe, she’s the danger. Either way, he sprints to the creek where he knows he will find her, like she is calling to him. 

He looks down the embankment to find her swinging the Sword against the men in red. She cuts down one of his brothers as though he were but a branch in her path, the body of another floating, blood spilling from his throat to cloud the crystal water. There remains only one for her to take on, and he can feel her hatred flowing through him, her merciless anger in the face of her enemy. He also feels her exhaustion, the way she is drained from what she has done. He is headed toward them before he can think. The paladin strikes at her hard with a righteous fury, and the Sword falls from her hand, consumed by the water. 

Sword at her throat, his brother sees him approaching. “It seems we have found the Wolf Blood Witch.” His eyes flash, taking in the crimson flood that surrounds him, wet red robes clinging to the fallen soldiers of God. “The demon murderess has killed for the last time with the Devil’s Tooth.” He presses the tip of his blade against the soft flesh of her neck, indicating to the Monk where the Sword had fallen. “Fetch the blade, brother.”

Nimue meets his eyes, fear evident in her own. She has no strength left to fight. She is utterly at their mercy, and she’ll find the Paladins have none, at least, not for her kind. He is thankful for his brother’s presence; she would not be able to tempt him so easily when he had such a clear show of support, a reminder of the importance of his mission.

He leans down, pulling the Sword from where it lies in the water. He studies it, the ancient Fey script running along the blade, glowing like embers in a dying fire. Her vengeance becomes his own, the Sword in his hand. He turns to his brother, ashen tears glowing like the text that scars the blade. 

“What sorcery is thi--” The man’s head falls before he can finish his question, his body following it with a splash as blood and water mix.

Lancelot looks at the scene in horror, the water matching the robes of his dead brothers. One of whom he had killed himself. “What have I done?” he whispers, the Sword falling from his hand to rest in the creek bed once more as the embers that lit his face die out. 

Nimue steadies his shaking hands. “Lancelot.” He hardly hears her, his mind trying to find some explanation for what he’d done, eyes wide, but unseeing.

“What have I done?” He repeats, unable to keep fear, confusion from escaping him.

“You did what I could not.” Her eyes are piercing, cutting through the haze in his mind. “Exactly as I had imagined.”

“I lost all control, that sword in my hand.” He looks at her, horrified, desperate for her to make sense of what he cannot. “What sorcery makes that possible?”

“Help me find Merlin,” she begs him. “He is the only one who has the answers you seek.”

He refuses her suggestion in an instant. “I cannot let you bring the Sword to that wizard. I will bring you to my father and we will end this.”

She voices the thoughts he has tried so hard to suppress in his hope for a simple solution. “What happens if it does not stop after you kill me?” She asks him. “What if this is not something that can be reversed?”

There has to be an answer. He cannot live every day like this, conflicted, out of control; however, something tells him getting rid of the witch will not be the end of his problems, but the beginning of something infinitely worse. “Fine,” Lancelot says begrudgingly after a very long moment of consideration. “I will take you to Merlin.” He sees the way her eyes light up, ever so slightly, but he cannot allow her to hold out hope, even if he has yielded in this one regard. “But once we have our answer, I must turn the Sword over to the Church.” It is his only chance at redemption now, the only way he can come back from all he’s done. Well, not the only way. He could kill the most powerful demon of all: the King’s wizard.

****

Nimue is terrified. It is like he had known the macabre manner of death the Sword had planted in her mind, brought it to fruition when she lacked the strength. It’s impossible, the connection they share, and yet…

She centers herself, thinking that surely this will change his mind, make him more sympathetic to her quest. When he agrees to take her to Merlin, her heart rejoices, one step closer to honoring her mother’s request. Then, more in line with his annoyingly persistent stubbornness, he reminds her that he still means to deliver the Sword to his father. Still, despite everything he has done. “You think your father will take you back gladly after what you have done?” she challenges him. 

She sees him wince before he stifles the doubt he must be feeling. “And who will tell him?” Lancelot demands, looking wildly about at the bodies that would not betray his trespass, “you?” He steps closer to her, water splashing around his feet with the movement. “You think he would believe a word you say, a heathen witch, over his son?”

Nimue does not back down, as she is sure he intends. She looks him dead in the eye. “What’s the word of one heathen over that of another?” Nimue asks, reminding him that for all his posturing, for all his pretending, he is as much a demon in the eyes of the Church as she is. “That man is as much your father as I am your enemy,” she continues to taunt him with the truth even as she sees a quiet fury rise up in him. 

“You think because you have seen a memory or two, you know me?” Now it is his hands on hers, not steadying, reassuring, but harsh, domineering. “You know nothing, witch.”

His hostility is a sure sign she has rattled him, so she does not relent, despite his efforts to scare her. She is not afraid of him, not anymore. “I know you,” she says with absolute certainty. “I know you as if you were my own flesh.” Nimue feels a chill up her spine, from the notion of such an intimate knowledge of him, or the water that clings to her legs, she knows not. 

His hands hold hers less firmly, but he seems unconscious of the change, his eyes never leaving hers. She sees it then, in his eyes, in her mind. 

_ He looks on in terror as men in red slaughter his neighbors, his friends. He’d just returned from a hunt, but his bow, his bounty lay forgotten at his feet as he sees an angry man drag his mother by the hair toward one of many crosses erected among the tents and trees. Lancelot is frozen in horror, remaining hidden at a distance as his mother is tied to the wooden beams. The angry man lights the beam at the bottom with a torch, and flames travel upward quickly, consuming her feet and then her legs, as screams unlike anything he has ever heard pierce his brain. His father runs toward her, desperate to relieve her pain, to save her from these evil men. _

_ Lancelot sees the man behind his father, his sword drawn. He cries out to warn his father, but his voice is drowned out by the chaos, by his mother’s screams of agony. He feels his heart break as the blade pierces his father through the back, bringing him to his knees, unable to do anything but look on uselessly as the fire swallows his mother whole. _

_ He cries for what feels like hours, hiding behind the trunk of a tree as the chaos dies down. As the sun begins to set, the evil men depart, leaving him with nothing. No family, no friends, no home. Once he is certain they are all gone, he runs over to where his father lies, blood staining the earth at his side. Lancelot falls to his knees, shaking his father, hoping to see his eyes open, even though he knows deep down they never will again. “Father, please!” he begs, weeping. _

_ He is so distraught by the fate of his parents, his village, that he does not notice the white-haired man walk up behind him until he feels a hand grip his shoulder. “How did you manage to escape our notice, I wonder?” the man says, attempting to pull the boy to his feet. Lancelot fights back with a desperate fury, bracing a hand to the ground as he falls out of the man’s hold. “Well, isn’t that interesting,” the man observes, his eyes focused on the boy’s hand, stained green like the leaves beneath his fingers. The red-robed man stands over him, considering. Finally, he speaks. “You’ll come with me, if you want to live, boy.” _

_ Lancelot looks up at him, angry, afraid. He would not be able to survive on his own, and after what he had just witnessed, he knew he would not be safe taking refuge in a nearby Fey village. “I am sorry father,” he whispers before standing to follow the white-haired man. He had no choice, save for death, but he was not brave enough to choose that path. _

_ “God is your father, now, boy,” the man tells him. “I will train you in His ways and perhaps we will see if He can redeem even the demon-born.” _

Lancelot falls to his knees in the water before her, weeping. Her own tears cloud her vision as the memory fades from her mind’s eye. She has so many questions, chiefly, how he could help the Paladins desecrate Fey villages after what he had experienced, but she cannot bring herself to ask, not now. She sinks down to his level, the bloody water soaking into her clothes, her skin. Nimue says nothing, just wraps her arms around him and holds on for dear life. His or hers, she knows not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live for your comments, so let me know what you think!


	10. Bare

Nimue shivers. She’s lost track of how much time has passed, the two of them on their knees in the shallow water, but she is drenched to the bone. She pulls back from Lancelot, leaving a comforting hand on his arm as she meets his eye. His tears have dried, but the sadness lingers like a dull ache. It feels wrong to discuss the painful memory, so she decides to deal with the physical conundrum first. She stands, offering Lancelot a hand. “We should build a fire, dry out our clothes.” Once he is on his feet, Nimue reaches into the water to grab the Sword. “We’ll worry about what comes next tomorrow,” she says, leaving no room for argument. He does not seem to want to fight her on that, anyway, his shoulders drooping from a holistic exhaustion.

They leave the gruesome scene behind, heading back up to the cover of trees where she had left Goliath some hours before. Lancelot looks about, as if seeking something; she does not know what he hopes to find, but by the look on his face, it is not there. He turns his attention to collecting kindling instead. 

It is not long before he’s brought a fire to life, the flames large and inviting to her chilled frame. Lancelot throws his wet cloak to the ground, and Nimue shivers once more. She sees him attempt to create some sort of contraption to hang their wet clothing over the fire, struggling to arrange branches in a solid way. She closes her eyes, focusing. Seconds later, vines spring from the earth, molding the sticks into a single form. If he is surprised by her demonstration, he does not show it, only picks his cloak up from the ground and lays it over the flames. His shirt follows a moment later, ripped from his torso with a violent suction. Her teeth chatter, wet fabric stuck to every inch of her skin. Nimue is desperate to remove the frigid article, but she is more than a little unnerved at the thought of being naked before him, even if he has already stripped her bare in so many other ways. 

His upper half free from water-logged confinement, he walks over to where Goliath is tethered, returning to the fire’s side with a blanket from his saddlebag. Lancelot drops the blanket at her feet. “You’ll catch your death if you keep that on,” he inclines his head toward her habit, prodding his offering with the tip of his foot. It is unexpectedly...chivalrous of him, but she supposes he is far too prudish and intent to resist temptation to prefer the alternative.

She nods her thanks, picking up the blanket as she stands. Nimue reaches for the hem, meaning to pull the whole thing over her head. Lancelot turns his back to her in a flash, his eyes widening. She struggles with the garment in relative privacy, its shapeless structure clinging to her like a second skin. She nearly has it off, but then it gets stuck around her head, her arms awkwardly bound in sleeves and limited in their movement. She tries to pull it back down over her ears, but it does not cooperate.  _ Great.  _ “Umm,” she starts, voice muffled by the layer of wet fabric, “can you help me?” She’s embarrassed to even have to ask, hating that for all her stubbornness, he would still see her unclothed. She can hear him turn around, and she does not have to see to know his eyes blow wide in an almost comical display of surprise and innocence. He moves closer to her, careful not to touch her bare skin as he dislodges the garment from its place over her ears.

Free from her frigid prison, Nimue shivers in an entirely different way under Lancelot’s unblinking scrutiny. She crosses her arms over her chest, equal parts confused, afraid, and pleased by his attention. The movement seems to startle him, for he looks away in an instant, bending to retrieve the blanket that she had dropped in her struggle. He hands it to her, eyes very purposefully focusing any direction but hers. She takes it, covering herself and snuggling into its dry warmth. She sighs. “Thank you.”

He says nothing, just moves to the other side of the fire, as far from her as he can get without depriving himself of warmth.

They sit in silence for a while, gladly absorbing the fire’s heat. Lancelot looks like he’s weighing something heavy in his mind, and she waits for him to speak, certain the memory they had shared would not be a stone left unturned. When he still does not say anything, Nimue finally lets herself ask, “how is it you can do what you do after what happened to you?”

His icy blue eyes narrow at her question, but he offers no answer, just returns to his pondering.

“How could you choose this life?” she asks again, unwilling to let it go. “It’s antithetical to your very being, who you are.”

“You think I wanted this?” he asks with no small amount of bitterness. “They stripped me of everything, all feeling, every desire, even my memories!” He studies the flames intently, determined not to look at her. “There is nothing left of me, of who I was,” he whispers, his voice barely carrying over to her.

“Lancelot,” Nimue starts, meaning to argue with him.

“I am not Lancelot,” he says, trying to sound firm, but his voice wavers. “Not anymore. Not ever again.”

Nimue moves to sit beside him, tired of staring him down in what feels like antagonistic opposition. She can feel them teetering over the precipice of  _ something,  _ and she is desperate for it, for things to shift. She entwines her fingers with his, meeting his curious gaze. “I lied to you, when I said there was no good in you, that I would not tempt you to redemption.” His eyebrows rise, but only slightly, as though he does not want to let himself be surprised by what she is saying. “Even when I hated you,” her hold on him tightens, subconsciously, “I saw that there was more there than just an agent of darkness, a monster.” Nimue knows his first instinct is to doubt her, to think her words some manipulation, so she saturates her touch with sincerity, knowing he will be able to feel her genuine intent.

“And you do not hate me anymore?” Lancelot looks at her, trying to find the answer in her eyes. It seems important to him, her response, so she does not joke as she would have been tempted to do in the past.

She thinks about it for a long moment and knows she answers honestly when she says, “no.”

“You should,” he laughs, darkly. “I do.”

“I don’t,” Nimue says with absolute certainty. “There is something worth saving in you, yet, Lancelot.” She believes that with all of her heart, even if he cannot.

He scoffs in obvious disbelief. “I would not stake your hopes on that.”

She brings his hand to her lips, gracing his rough knuckles with the lightest of kisses. “Too late.”

****

It is heady, the way she believes in him, even if she is completely misguided. He tries to suppress the conflict, the whisper of desire she stirs in him to be good, to be better. The whisper is growing louder with her every word, and he has to force himself not to give in to her now. If he does, he is afraid he can never go back. And he cannot give up. Not when the alternative provides a far greater risk. He stands, pulling his hand from hers. He ignores the way her face falls at his withdrawal, refuses to let himself care that she is disappointed, but his heart twinges just slightly, all the same.

“We should sleep,” Lancelot tells her, checking to see if his cloak is dry. No such luck. It looks like he will be spending the night shivering in his soaked trousers. 

Nimue stands, and as if she read his thoughts, she says, “you cannot sleep in wet clothing.” She gestures toward his legs. “You’ll freeze.”

He meets her eye then, determined not to show how the thought of being bare before her affects him. “It is a better alternative to being completely unguarded against your temptation.” His sarcasm belies a confidence he does not feel. He had nearly come undone earlier, seeing her bare skin, so beautiful and smooth and begging to be touched.  _ God, give me strength. _

“Just so we are clear,” Nimue asks, amused, “you would rather die than sleep beside me unclothed?”

“I believe that is what I said, yes,” he replies, gaze fixed on the ground as if it is the most interesting thing he has ever seen.

Lancelot does not have to look at her to know she is rolling her eyes. “Do not be ridiculous,” she chides him. “I am far too tired and too cold to put any effort into tempting you.” She would not need to put in any effort. Her presence and his imagination would be temptation enough. “Besides,” she says, unwrapping the blanket so he sees a hint of her shoulder, “this blanket is big enough for us to share.”

Surely he could control himself--he had been doing it for a lifetime, after all, and the thought of sleeping in wet clothes is becoming more and more unappealing to him as time goes on. “Fine,” he says, grabbing his saddlebag from Goliath’s back. “Turn around, please,” Lancelot instructs her when it seems she is not inclined to give him privacy. 

She does not, simply looks at him with a hint of mischief. “You saw me, so it seems only fair…”

Lancelot blushes at the reminder of the way she had been completely revealed to him.  _ This is a terrible idea.  _ He fumbles for something to say, falling back on the reliability of sarcasm. “It is not my fault you are incapable of taking off your own clothes,” he mocks. “Now, turn around.”

She sticks out her tongue at him, and he is amazed how she can go from temptress to immature child in the blink of an eye. He puts his hands on her shoulders, turning her away from him. When he is convinced she will stay put, he strips off his trousers, sighing in relief to no longer be confined in the cold, wet fabric. With her back still turned, she moves to the ground by the fire, lying on her side. He lays down behind her, placing the saddlebag between them to maintain some sort of boundary. Nimue unwraps herself slightly, throwing the freed portion of the blanket over her shoulder for him. He looks down at her back, skin bare between them, nearly touching his chest. He shivers, but not from the cold.  _ You idiot. _

Lancelot speaks to her of her plans, hoping to distract himself from the way it feels to be lying next to her, practically skin on skin. “So, why Merlin?” he inquires, following the slope of her neck from her shoulder to her ear, hidden behind her damp hair.

She says nothing, and he wonders if she means to ignore him. It would be a smart choice; in her position, he would not trust him, either. Still, he is curious. “Why is this so important to you?” he asks her, finding he genuinely wants to know. What has happened to him? 

A moment later, he feels her exhale, preparing to answer him. “It was the last thing my mother said before she died. She was so adamant about it, that I take the Sword to Merlin. She’d never mentioned him before, and once I saw what the Sword could do, I…” she is rambling, as though the flood of words can keep her tears from flowing. “Something in me just...I think Merlin is my father,” she says in a rush, and he is shocked. It is the absolute last thing he had expected to hear in response to his question. 

“What makes you say that?” he wonders aloud.

“My father, Jonah, never loved me,” Nimue says, oddly wistful.

He starts to argue, to tell her that cannot be true, and she rolls over to face him, putting a hand gently to his face. Lancelot feels the pain of her rejection, the wish for affection, the despair at being so unlovable that her father could leave her, forever. He swallows, a wave of empathy washing over him that he does not want to feel. “He hated me, hated the way my magic made our neighbors fear us, reject us.” Her tears fall freely now. “I begged him to stay, but he could not wait to escape me, his witch of a daughter.”

“And Merlin?” he prods, wiping a tear from her cheek. 

“There is just something in me that knows it is true.” He feels a similar, almost eerie certainty wash over him. She rolls back on her side, her next statement more of an afterthought. “It does more to explain my curse than anything else I have come up with over the years,” Nimue mutters.

In the next minute, he is pulling her back against him, draping an arm over her side, holding her tight. He does not know what comes over him, he only knows that she needs comfort. And so he gives it. 

Lancelot is nearly too far gone, now. At the rate he’s going, the only thing that could ingratiate him with the Church once more would be to deliver the fatal blow to the most dangerous of all Fey. Merlin the magician. Nimue’s father. God help him.

****

Nimue stirs, her skin ablaze. She tries to move, but it is like she is tied down. Opening her eyes, she finds Lancelot curled into her back, fingers splayed across the bare skin of her stomach. She feels a wonderful, confusing tingling in her chest from his touch. It should not be so comforting, being held by him like this--he had threatened to kill her only a few days ago, after all--but, for some reason, she cannot stop herself from smiling.

She turns, slightly, studies his sleeping face, hair still falling loosely around his neck in soft waves. Nimue does not think she has ever seen him more at ease than in this moment, when his unconscious mind does not have to remind him that he should hate himself. She nearly shakes her head at the thought of his frustrating stubbornness, but then she softens, remembering the torture he had insinuated.

Nimue leans into him, enjoying the firm feel of his chest, the strength of his legs. She so desperately wants to touch him, to get caught up in a passion she does not understand, but then she thinks of the progress they had made the day before. Trying to wrench honesty and reflection from him is a slow process, and she worries that any sudden moves on her part will send him off like a spooked deer. Not wanting to lose the ground she’s fought so hard to gain, Nimue disentangles herself from Lancelot, clothing herself in the blessedly dry habit.

Lancelot wakes a few moments later, eyes blinking slowly as awareness settles in. He wraps the blanket around his lower half, rising wordlessly to gather his clothes from their place above the dwindling fire. Walking out into the trees, clothes in hand, he seeks privacy to set himself to rights. He returns a few moments later, hair tied tightly, dark cloak shrouding his features.  _ Like nothing has changed.  _ Nimue refuses to be discouraged, and finds she does not need to be as he offers her a hesitant smile before gathering his blanket and saddlebag to prepare Goliath for the next leg of their trip.

“I think we should continue on to Hawksbridge,” Nimue suggests, stamping out what little remains of the fire. He looks over his shoulder at her. “If any of the village elders survived the attack on Dewdenn, they will not have gone far.” She can see the way he struggles to respond to that, responsible, at least, in part for the destruction of her home. She should not rejoice at his guilt, but she does, hoping that it is a precursor to the reckoning he so desperately needs.

He turns back to Goliath, busying his hands with the saddle. “Merlin serves Uther Pendragon,” he pauses, letting her absorb the information. “Why not just make our way to the castle?” he asks.

She makes her way to where he stands, untying Goliath’s reins from where she had tethered them the day before. “I need to meet him alone,” Nimue says, convinced that this is the best way forward. The Sword in her hand confirms it is the right path to take. She can tell the whisper teases his mind, too.

“And you think these elders will know more of Merlin, of how to contact him?” Lancelot seems doubtful. 

“It seems safer than wandering into the unknown,” Nimue says with a shrug. “You cannot be the only one after this Sword,” she says, eyes falling to the curious blade in her hand. If the Church wanted it, why should the King not? Her mother had said nothing of the King, and she finds she has no trust for him either, knowing that he allows the zealots to burn Fey villages and slaughter innocents unchecked within his kingdom. 

He nods in agreement, offering her a hand to mount Goliath. “To Hawksbridge, then.” Once she is settled, he mounts behind her, his arms resting at her hips as he takes the reins. She feels that peculiar sense of comfort again, but she makes no attempt to stifle it. Even if Lancelot could not completely be trusted, even if he insisted on fighting his true nature, it was nice to not feel so alone for once. 


	11. Cruel to be Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating has gone up, because these two are total idiots.

They ride mostly in silence, Nimue not wanting to jeopardize the tenuous sort of truce the day before had brought. Her skin tingles where his hands rest, right above her hip bones. She imagines his hands clinging there under different circumstances, her legs wrapped around his waist as he--she blushes, banishing the thought from her mind, but not soon enough, it seems. His hands lift from where they rest, careful not to make contact with her.  _ He had seen that?!  _ Nimue thinks she might die of embarrassment. 

“Lancelot,” she starts, turning to him, wanting to explain away the unconscious thought. The growing flush on his cheeks is confirmation he had seen her incredibly sensual mental image. “I didn’t...I…” she cannot seem to find the words. 

He laughs, and she begs the Hidden to swallow her up, to bury her in the earth so she does not have to hear whatever he is about to say. No such luck. “It seems not even our thoughts are private, anymore,” Lancelot observes, slowing Goliath’s pace with a click of his tongue. “For both our sakes, you should abstain from entertaining such thoughts,” he instructs her.  _ So much for progress. _

“You are telling me what to think now?” she demands, trying to cover her embarrassment with anger. 

“No,” he begins, ever calm, “I just do not think you should waste energy pondering such impossibilities. I have sworn a vow of celibacy, so  _ that,” _ he says with a blush, referencing her little daydream, “can never happen.”

She remembers the torment, the rejection from her peers, laughing at the notion that anyone could desire her in that way. She knows he sees that, too.  _ Damn him. Damn this stupid sword. _

“Nimue,” he starts, but she will not take pity, not from him.

“You mean still to do as they wish?” she interrupts. How could he possibly?

He looks at her, trying to stifle the conflict she knows he feels. “When did I give the impression that I meant to do anything else?” She thinks of the way he had kissed her, had wept in her arms. His eyes flash with an anger no more real than hers. “Just because you tempt me to weakness at every turn does not mean I plan to abandon my calling.”

Had she not thought she could do exactly that? Initially, yes, but there is something more between them now. She is certain of it. “Is that all I am to you? A temptation?” her voice is soft as she begs honesty from him. 

He looks like he cannot decide between killing her or kissing her, the struggle evident in his eyes. Finally, his calm, assured facade returns, and when he speaks, it is with a careful aloofness. “It is all you can be,” he says, as if resigning himself to a predetermined fate. 

Fine. If he is determined to be stubborn, then so is she. If all he sees is temptation, then she will lean into that, show him temptation. Knowing he can see every image her mind conjures, she pictures the two of them, bare as they had been that morning. Her eyes never leaving his, she imagines herself waking him with a kiss, her hands clinging to his naked skin. He narrows his eyes at her, but she does not relent. In her mind, he kisses down her neck, his hands daring as they settle on her chest, a thumb brushing hesitantly over her nipple. Her breath hitches. In reality, it is him whose breath is arrested. Slowly, his head moves down to follow his hands, his lips latching on where his thumb had teased. 

He blushes, hard. “My God, Nimue, please--” but whatever plea he was about to make is overtaken by a haunted look as his eyes leave hers. She turns to find the abbey, razed to the ground before them.

****

Lancelot stares at Yvoire Abbey, or what remains of it, Nimue’s little stunt pushed temporarily from his mind. He dismounts, single-minded as he rushes to investigate, to check for survivors. He finds nothing but rubble, bodies crushed beneath, like they could not escape in time. Smoke still rises in the air, indicating that the abbey burned not too long ago. “Hello?” he cries out, hoping against hope that someone remains, can tell him what happened here. Silence. Like every time he had prayed for God for deliverance.

Surely his father had left the abbey days ago. Why, then, did part of him hope that Carden’s was one of the bodies turned to ash beneath the rubble?  _ Because that bastard killed your family, Lancelot,  _ he thinks, before he can control his thoughts.  _ No. Carden took me in, gave me a way to rise above my evil nature. _ He barely believes that, anymore, thanks to the influence of a certain witch. 

“What happened here?” Nimue asks him, still astride Goliath’s back. He looks up at her, surprised to see genuine concern on her face.

“I do not know,” he responds, mounting Goliath once more, “but we won’t find out by lingering here. Hawksbridge is not far, now.” He nudges Goliath into a trot. “Hopefully we’ll find answers there.” About Merlin, about his father, about whether it was worth it to resist his nature any longer. Lancelot pushes that thought from his mind in an instant, knowing that if Nimue caught wind of his consideration, he would never hear the end of it from her. And he could not allow her to persuade him, not if his father still lived. And if he didn’t...well, Lancelot hopes it does not come to that. As much as he wants to deny it, to say that his mind is completely made up, he would be lying if he said his motivation remained unchanged from the moment he’d laid eyes upon her. But she cannot know that. With that knowledge, he would lose the last shred of control he has, and he cannot be at her mercy, convinced as she is that he should leave behind everything he has ever known.

He does not speak to her, does not acknowledge her as they ride on toward Hawksbridge. He veers suddenly to avoid a low-hanging branch, and sees Nimue lose her balance. Not wanting to have to stop to pick her up from the ground, he puts a hand to her hip, steadying her. She leans into the support, balance restored. “Thank you,” she says, looking pointedly at his hand on her hip. Remembering their conversation before they had come upon the abbey, Lancelot draws his hand back as if burned. She turns around at his obvious discomfort, but she does nothing to alleviate it. In fact, she continues to tempt him. “What would you have done, I wonder, if we had not been interrupted earlier?” Nimue ponders aloud.

His mind flashes to the image she had conjured of his mouth on her breasts. He groans, the picture forever burned into his brain. He’d be lying if he said the thought had not crossed his mind the night before when he had seen her bare skin. His eyes had nearly burst out of his skull, taking in the expanse of milky white skin on display before him. The sinful part of him--well, every part of him, if he is honest--had wanted to taste that skin. Thankfully, the logical part of his brain had taken charge before he could make a colossal mistake. 

Now, she uses his own stubbornness against him. He finds himself wishing he had just lied to her, told her he had changed his mind, so she hadn’t felt the need to arouse his growing desire for her. Instead, he suffers the full force of her temptation, her efforts crafted particularly to spite him.  _ Well, two can play that game. _

Lancelot slides forward in the saddle, leaving no space between them. He leans into her, his breath teasing her ear as he gives her a taste of her own medicine. “I probably would have done this,” he murmurs, his mouth moving hotly down her neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses behind. He hears her suck in a breath when he licks the spot just behind her ear, and he smiles wickedly against her skin. As he continues to explore her neck, his hands skate up her sides and around, playing out the next part of her fantasy. “And then,” he whispers in her ear, enjoying the way she shivers at his touch, “I would have done this.” His hands cup her breasts through the thick fabric, a thumb brushing her nipple to test if she is as sensitive as she had imagined. She gasps at the friction and his traitorous mind catalogues the noise for later, even though he means not to touch her again, after this. 

Nimue turns toward him, eyes blown wide with desire. He wants nothing more than to devour her, to kiss her until neither of them can breathe, but if he does, he can never be the Weeping Monk again. He would only be left with Lancelot, and the thought is enough to terrify him, to extinguish the yearning that burns in him. Instead, he brings his lips to where his hands had been, enveloping the sensitive peak. It is not quite as she imagined, the rough fabric an annoying barrier between them, but it is enough to make her whimper, the way he pulls her nipple into his mouth, rolls it between his lips.

As she lets out a pleading moan, he releases her, leaving her desperate and wanting. “I would not have done any of that,” he scoffs, creating distance between them, “because I could never give myself to a witch.” The words are lies through his teeth, but he knows that the barb will make her angry enough to cease her attempts at seduction, something he needs if he is to maintain his sanity.

Lancelot can practically feel her deflate at his words, and he knows she is thinking of the boy who had so cruelly enticed her, equating them in her mind.  _ Good. _ It is better for her to hate him, to think him cruel, a monster, than to hold onto hope that he could change, be better. Be worthy of her.

She maintains the distance between them, sitting as far forward as she can, shoulders slumped. For the first time, she makes no attempt to talk to him, to badger him into complacency with pity, and the sweet, melodic way she says his name. The silence is deafening, and as the minutes drag into hours, Hawksbridge ever nearer, he finds he misses the sound of her voice.

****

Nimue focuses on her anger to keep tears from escaping. She refuses to cry over that stupid, stubborn monk. And he thought her guilty of seduction and manipulation, after what he’d just done? Nimue sighs. Deep down, she knows he is just holding on to a life that no longer seems to fit him, trying desperately to reinforce ideas he clearly no longer believes. Still, her pride stings at his rejection, so personal, visceral in nature. He had made sure to really twist the knife when he’d buried it in her heart. And yet, despite all this, she finds she cannot give up on him. It would be easier if she could, but he is a part of her now. The Sword had seen to that. 

She is more eager to find Merlin than ever, needing someone else to help convince Lancelot to let go of a goal that would ultimately drive him to destruction, making him more and more unrecognizable to himself by the day. She is invested in his fate now, linked to her as he is. There must be some reason for it, this bond that they share. Some reason other than to cause her pain, although, at the moment, she is skeptical. 

As they approach the woods surrounding Hawksbridge, Nimue feels both wary and hopeful in anticipation of what is to come.


	12. Good Grief

They arrive in Hawksbridge shortly before dark, the sky a flaming array of colors as the sun plunges into the horizon. Lancelot says nary a word to Nimue, knowing that if he does not hold his tongue, he will likely beg her forgiveness for his slight. If he did that, the whole charade would be rendered meaningless, so he swallows his guilt and the strong need to apologize. For some reason, hurting her has him deeply unsettled, like her pain is a heavy burden lingering, weighing down on his beleaguered heart. He is terrified of the way she makes him feel, makes him care about her when he should not. Lancelot sends a plea to the heavens, begging for strength. He certainly has his own weakness to blame for his failings, but it definitely feels like his myriad of prayers have gone unanswered.  _ No temptation beyond what I can bear, huh?  _ In the absence of assurance, doubt plants itself in his mind, like haphazardly scattered seeds.

Lancelot stops at the city’s outer limits, dismounting and securing Goliath’s reins around the slight trunk of a nearby tree. He offers a hand to Nimue, but she ignores him, sliding down effortlessly, without his assistance. “I will need to find you something else to wear, something less conspicuous,” he says, lips turning up just slightly--she was by far too alluring for a nun.

“Perhaps I should go,” she says, “since I have a better idea what would fit.”

His eyes sweep over her form before he can help himself, calling to mind the image of her unclothed before him. He gulps. “I think I can handle it.” He turns toward Hawksbridge, relieved that with every step, she cannot see his cheeks tint pink, the image of her refusing to dissipate. Lancelot takes a few more steps before he remembers something. He turns, calling out to her, “can I trust you not to run off with my horse again?” He thinks he sees a hint of a smile, but that is likely just wishful thinking on his part.

She only nods, her eyes lacking the warmth they had held only a day ago. He tries not to let that bother him. “Alright, then,” he says, turning away from her once more. After days of banter and her acerbic wit, silence feels wrong, somehow.  _ Don’t feel bad, you blundering idiot. This is exactly what you have been begging God for from the moment you met her.  _

Still, it does not feel like an answered prayer, and he cannot shake that feeling as he pilfers some lady’s clothing, dangling in the night wind where it had been hung to dry.  _ This will do nicely,  _ he thinks, noting the rich cerulean hue that will call attention only to the similar shade of her arresting eyes.  _ Stop that.  _ New clothes in hand, he returns to where he had left Nimue. 

He finds her still there, as she had promised, flipping through a small stack of parchments with careful eyes. As he gets closer, he can make out a list of names, sitting atop a detailed map of the surrounding areas. Ah, the reconnaissance he had gathered for his father. He had forgotten she had stolen it before they left the abbey. He swallows, the nagging question of his father’s fate remaining like a storm cloud in the back of his mind. Knowing he will have his answer tomorrow, he returns his attention to the matter at hand. “I searched you,” he says, reminding her of the play she had made for control, “thoroughly.” He shoves down the embarrassment and a certain other emotion that rises with the thought of their intimacy. “Those maps were nowhere to be found.”

He can see her bite her tongue to keep from mouthing off, and again, he finds he misses it, her  liveliness. Instead, she merely shrugs, muttering, “I hid them in your saddlebag when I took off with Goliath.”

“And what is it you hope to find?” Lancelot asks, crouching before her to better see the map.

She withdraws from him, shielding the page from his view, a move that ultimately seems petty, considering what she proceeds to share with him. “There is a Fey elder in a village not a few miles from here,” she tells him. “That is, if your brothers have not come across them in the meantime,” Nimue says with no small amount of hostility. 

He should rejoice in her cold attitude, her distrust, but contentment evades him, knowing that she is disappointed in him. He should not even care what she thinks, but for some reason, he desires her good opinion, feeling like he can never know peace until he has her approval.  _ Ridiculous. _

“In the morning we will ask around in town, see if anyone knows anything about the abbey,” Lancelot decides. “Then,” he says, looking at her intently, “we will find your Fey elder.” Her nose flares in annoyance, and he very decidedly does not find it cute. Not in the slightest. 

“Sleep well, Nimue,” he tells her, rising to create distance between them. He does not light a fire. It is a warm night, and he really should avoid the forced proximity it would encourage. He watches her settle down to sleep, without a word to him, leaning against Goliath’s exhausted, reclining shape. He has never envied a horse more.  _ It could be you, if you weren’t so stubborn.  _

His mind tingles from the uninvited thought, suddenly aware of an invasive presence mingling with his own consciousness. Lancelot squeezes his eyes shut in a futile attempt to drive her away. “Get out of my head,” he grits through clenched teeth.

_ “I can’t,”  _ he hears, but she has not said a word. Her annoyance is nearly tangible, mirroring his own. “ _ I did not ask for any of this. I do not  _ want  _ this.”  _

It should not sting, the way she wishes to cast him aside so easily, and yet, he finds himself retorting defensively, “it certainly seemed like you wanted  _ something  _ this afternoon.”

He feels an anger not his own, simmering down from a boil, like she cannot fully commit to it. “ _ I hate you.” _

_ “Likewise,”  _ he thinks, knowing he does not mean it, just as she doesn’t. “Goodnight, Nimue,” Lancelot says, indicating that nothing further need be said--or thought--tonight. When she does not respond, verbally or otherwise, he lets out a sigh, relaxing into the ground. Rest takes its time finding him, as part of him imagines every way Nimue might kill him as he slumbers. 

Lancelot hears her choke back a laugh, and he swears she smiles as she says, “Goodnight Lancelot.” His heart is just a little bit lighter as he finally falls asleep.

****

Nimue wakes before the sun, her back warm from Goliath’s still sleeping form. The beast looks at peace, as does his master, some distance away. Lancelot is sprawled out on the ground, hood covering his eyes as his chest rises and falls steadily. Her lips start to tilt upward at the corners, seeing him look so...normal, but she catches herself. Even if she had already determined not to give up on him, that did not mean she was ready to let go of her anger. He had hurt her, but she did not want to admit it, because it gave him a power over her she did not quite like. And yet, he held that power all the same, wielding it like a weapon against her one moment, then disarming her with tentative affection the next. It would be wise to remain indifferent to him, to ignore the whims of his indecision, but that feels as impossible as living without air.

She studies his face--what she can see of it, anyway. What would it take for him to let go, to finally accept the truth about himself? Granted, it would be a long journey, but surely he would be happier no longer striving, suffering to overcome the insurmountable obstacle of his so-called “demon birth” on the road to salvation?

“I must confess, I am flattered that you care about my happiness,” Lancelot says, startling her with his low voice, still gravelly from the disuse of sleep.

She looks away as he sits up, hood falling back, knowing that he is mocking her, refusing to entertain a conversation tainted even in the slightest by sentiment. Nimue resists the urge to roll her eyes and stands, collecting the clothes he had left for her the night before. She has half a mind to change on the spot, just to spite him, but she had learned her lesson yesterday, so she finds cover amidst a cluster of trees a short distance away. The blue gown is simple, but much more fitted than the habit had been. Nimue admires the color as the skirt falls to her feet. Blue as the ocean, it reminds her of the dress she had worn when last in Hawksbridge, when she had been desperate to sail away, when she had been covered in sweat and wolf’s blood. How much has changed since then!

Putting aside her reflection, Nimue steps out from the trees, leaving the well-worn disguise where it lay in the dirt. “Ready when you are,” she says, strolling past Lancelot toward the city, intent on finding answers.

The streets of Hawksbridge are already bustling when Nimue and Lancelot make their way in, vendors selling food and wares, fishermen set to work for the day, and figures in red robes strolling along in all their severity as if they were not more monster than men. Lancelot hands her a coin, his eyes following the red-robed men in preoccupation. “Find us something to eat,” he tells her. “I am going to inquire about the fire at the abbey.” He is off after the Paladins before she can offer a word of argument, not that she means to. She finds a baker, table overflowing with loaves of delicious smelling bread. Handing him the coin, she accepts his bounty with a smile, her stomach rumbling in anticipation.

Nimue makes her way to the alley, the very place she had hidden when this all began. Away from the bustle of the crowd, she enjoys her breakfast, reluctantly leaving some for Lancelot who would no doubt be hungry, too. She sits in peace for a few moments, appreciating the crisp morning air and the scent of the sea on the breeze, until she feels a strange, annoyingly familiar tingling at the base of her skull. 

_ Two men stand before her, robes red as blood. “No one made it out of there alive,” one of them says, a solemn look on his face. “Although, we can take assurance knowing their souls now rest with the Almighty.” _

_ She feels a dull panic start to rise in her. “And what of my father, Carden?” she asks, desperate. _

_ “We’ve not heard from him in over a week,” the other man says, pity and something like fear coloring his tone. “He was at the abbey, last I knew.” The man puts a hand to her shoulder, a weak attempt at comfort. _

_ She shrugs the hand off, thanking them for the information before turning to leave. At their protest, their inquisition after what she means to do next, she tells them she will seek them out before the day’s end with a plan. It is a lie, but satisfied, they leave her alone to her grief. She feels it all, ripping her soul to shreds, anguish, doubt...hope? _

Nimue feels a jolt as she returns to herself, Lancelot’s view fading, dissolving into nothing. She had been there, where he stood, felt his every feeling as her own. Her heart aches with a loss she should not feel, and suddenly he is standing in front of her, pain manifested on every line of his face. Putting aside her anger, her fear of rejection, Nimue goes to him, wrapping her arms around him in the tightest of embraces, as if she could wring every last drop of hurt out of him. While she held no love for Carden--the man who headed the attack on her village, had been ready to burn her,  _ infected,  _ at the stake--she knows the ineffable pain of losing a parent, and despite her personal feelings toward the man, he had been all Lancelot had known in the manner of parental guidance for years. Her heart falters at that, a boy who needed love more than anything grown into a man who only knows hatred, for himself, for others. She refuses to think of the good that might come from Carden’s death, sharing Lancelot’s grief wholly with him as his tears soak into her shoulder.

She can feel him desperately trying to rein in his emotions, to push sadness aside. “Let’s go find your Fey elder,” he says, withdrawing from her, face stoic as ever, as though he had not used her as anchor to keep from drowning in his tears. 

“Lance,” she starts, concern coloring her eyes. He turns away from her, not wanting to show weakness. A strange thought, considering she has seen him at his lowest.

“You do not have to feign sympathy, Nimue,” he bites, “I know you hated him.”

“There is no pretense,” she says with sincerity. He faces her at that. “I know something of the loss you feel, myself,” Nimue reminds him of her mother. 

His eyes soften just slightly, and they share something wordless in that brief moment, before he steels himself against her, against feeling once more. “We really should continue on our way,” Lancelot tells her, grabbing her around the wrist and dragging her after him, as though she is his prisoner once more.

****

They leave the city simply, as if they had merely come to buy a loaf of bread. He shoves the remaining morsel in his mouth, praying it will keep him from saying something stupid.

His grief had been immense at first, but then it hollowed, lacking any real substance. Instead he felt...relief. Freedom. He had not allowed himself to linger there, guilt overtaking him in an instant. Nimue, blessedly, seemed none the wiser to his turmoil, trying to empathize with him, while it might not have been Carden’s loss he even mourned. 

He releases his grasp on her when they return to where they had left Goliath. He had probably held on longer than necessary, unconsciously trying to draw comfort, assurance from her. Let her think he grieved. It was safer than her putting to words the thoughts he had pushed aside. She could sway him in an instant, the way he feels right now. Part of him wants her to. He shakes his head, clearing the sacrilege from his mind. “After you,” he says, motioning for her to mount Goliath. She remains, looking into his eyes as if trying to puzzle out his every thought.  _ None of that, now. _

“We can take a moment, Lancelot,” she tells him, and if he were not so torn, he would be touched by her care. 

“No need,” he shrugs, mounting Goliath. He offers her a hand, and she follows with a reluctant sigh. He can tell she wants to say more, wants to crack him open until nothing remains between them save for the truth. “To the east?” he asks, indicating he has no desire for discussion. 

He can feel disappointment and something intangible emanating from her, but she responds in the affirmative, anyway. “A little over a league from here.”

Without another word, they set off. He prays that the elder can tell them something of Merlin, and that Merlin can tell him why the Sword means to so fully ruin his life. Thankfully, it does not take long to reach the small settlement. Lancelot feels his senses sing as they approach the Fey village. And, not the dark, foreboding tune of blood, fire, and ash. No, this melody is soft, ethereal, and far more haunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we feeling about this, truly?


	13. In This Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update! Please enjoy this slightly longer chapter and know that there is plenty more to come!

They are met with curious glances as Lancelot dismounts, offering a hand to Nimue, which she accepts. If this was anything like her village had been, they likely did not see many strangers, unless they sought to trade goods; they probably look suspicious, arriving with nary a good or trinket. Nimue approaches an older woman, smiling warmly to indicate she means no harm. “Pardon me. Is there a,” she looks down at the list, “Mischa here?”

The woman’s eyes flash to Lancelot standing behind her, narrowing slightly. “And who would it be that is asking?” the woman inquires.

“My name is Nimue,” she introduces herself, “of Dewdenn.” She pauses. “Lenore’s daughter.” 

The woman’s eyes soften as she recognizes the name. “How is Lenore?” the woman asks. “It’s been ages since I have seen her.”

Nimue swallows, trying to keep the emotion from her voice as she relays her mother’s fate, “She is dead. Killed by the Paladins who laid waste to Dewdenn.” 

The woman seems taken aback by the news. “I am sorry, child,” she says, holding Nimue’s hand in a gesture of comfort. “We have taken in a few Moonwings who escaped their fire and death, but I had no idea they had moved as near as Dewdenn.” Lancelot studies the ground intently at the mention of Moonwings, and Nimue is reminded of the flames, the agony, the screams she had glimpsed at the abbey, at his hand.

The woman seems to take notice of Lancelot’s sudden fixation as well. “And who is your friend, here?” she asks, inclining her head toward him. He lowers his hood in what she is sure is an attempt to look less intimidating.

“This is Lancelot,” Nimue introduces him before he can speak, “he is--”

“Ash Folk,” the woman interrupts, studying the marks beneath his eyes, curiously. “I had not thought there were any of you left.”

“There aren’t,” Lancelot replies. Nimue absorbs the information hungrily. So he was Ash Folk? And, apparently, the last of his clan. The woman raises a brow at his brusque response, and he continues before Nimue can interrupt him. “But we’ve not come to talk about me,” he says, clearing his throat. “Mischa?”

Even if she is glad for his redirection, Nimue worries that he has offended the woman with his less than tactful approach. She looks at the two of them, considering. Finally, she speaks, almost reluctantly. “The Hidden took him not a fortnight ago.” At the way Nimue deflates, the woman asks, “what is it that has brought you here seeking Mischa?”

“With her dying breath, my mother bid me find Merlin. We were hoping Mischa could tell us more about him, maybe help us contact him.” Nimue cannot help the despair that colors her tone as she details her motivation. It did not matter now. They would have to make for the castle, a lengthy and likely perilous journey. She curses the impossible task her mother had laden her with, further complicated by the Monk’s shifting agenda. At the moment, it all feels utterly hopeless.

“Merlin?” a low, melodic voice asks. Nimue turns toward the interjector desperately, hoping for something that means this detour has not been in vain. Her eyes fall on an old Moonwing, slight and frail, her arm looking as though it had been burned. A large bird sits on her shoulder, as if fused with her flesh. “What do you want with that traitor?”

_ Traitor?  _ It gives her pause, momentarily, but a gentle nudge from Lancelot brings her back. There would be plenty of time to worry over what Merlin was or was not, later, when they stood before him. “I need to speak with him,” Nimue says, trying to imbue her voice with all the importance of her quest.

The woman is light on her feet, as though her bones are hollow, coming far too close for Nimue’s comfort. She places her unburnt hand on Nimue’s back, feeling her scars, seeing her story. A shiver passes up Nimue’s spine. “You smell wrong,” the old Moonwing says, her nose wrinkling in distaste, “like your father.”

Nimue does not know where to start with that. “I beg your pardon? My fath--”

“You,” she says, accusatory, turning on Lancelot as if noticing him for the first time. “The one who cries.” 

The Moonwing turns back to Nimue. “This is the company you keep, this murdering wretch?”

Nimue knows without a doubt now that he had been the one to destroy her village, kill those she loved. 

“You do not understand, I—”

“You’re a traitor,” the Moonwing spits, “just like that father of yours.”

A traitor. She had called Merlin a traitor. Was he truly her father? The confirmation does not bring her the peace she had thought it would. Especially because it is starting to feel like she will never get to meet him.

“Please, it is important I speak with him,” Nimue pleads. The fate of our people depends on it.”

The old Moonwing scoffs. “If our fate depends on Merlin, then we are as good as doomed.”

Nimue fights the wave of discouragement that threatens to overtake her. “Please, just help me get a message to him. You must know where he is!”

“I do not. And I have no desire to find out.”

“Please,” Nimue begs, the fight in her dying with each subsequent rejection. “It was my mother’s dying wish.”

The woman sighs, in pity, in annoyance, Nimue knows not. “If you give me the message, Marguerite,” she shrugs her shoulder, indicating it is the bird she refers to, “will deliver it to Merlin.”

Not wanting to give the old, begrudging Moonwing time to change her mind, Nimue happily accepts the parchment and quill the woman they had initially spoken to, who Nimue had forgotten in her focus on Merlin, fetches. Satisfied with the message she has composed, she rolls the parchment like a scroll, concealing the text. She hands it to the Moonwing, something strange and weighty settling in her chest. The woman ties it to the bird, Marguerite’s, foot, deftly, as if she had done it hundreds of times. Task given, the bird takes flight without ceremony, and Nimue finds her hope now rests solely in the avian messenger.

Later that night, Lancelot paces, agitated, while Nimue sits in pensive silence. “So, what?” he asks. “We just wait and hope that her bird delivers your urgent message? And that Merlin actually responds to it?”

She can sense his doubt in his tone; he thinks this ridiculous. She glares at him. “This is your fault, anyway. If you had not personally set her home ablaze, maybe she would have been more agreeable to my request.” Nimue knows that is likely untrue. The Moonwing had already seemed to disapprove of her before she realized the identity of her travelling companion. Still, their poor reception was at least in part a consequence of atrocities the Weeping Monk had committed not too long ago. It is difficult to reconcile the snarky, tender, stubborn man she has come to know, with the Church’s “murdering wretch.”

He stops pacing then, standing before her. “I am not going to apologize, if that is what you are after,” he tells her, sensing the direction her thoughts have gone. “Besides, it did not seem like you were winning her over even before she noticed me, the ‘murdering wretch’.”

She thinks he is probably right, but it is easier, more comforting to blame him than consider herself an outcast among the Fey, even if that is all she has ever been. Nimue supposes she and Lancelot have that in common--they both have nowhere to truly belong. They had been relegated to their own makeshift camp after it had been made clear they were no longer welcome in the village. Now, they have no choice but to wait for a response from Merlin. 

In the meantime, Nimue means to gain some ground with Lancelot. “How do you do it?” she inquires.

“Do what?” he asks, vaguely annoyed.

“Kill innocents.”

“They are not innocent,” he corrects.

Nimue stands, looking him dead in the eye. “They are women and children,” she argues, impassioned.

He steps closer to her, maintaining eye contact, wanting to make sure she understands him. “I do not harm the children.”

It is a statement rife with meaning, with consequence. She knows he thinks of fire, and agonizing screams, and being taken from his home--she can see it swimming in his eyes. She also knows that being spared from death does not mean the absence of harm, of hurt. Nimue’s mind flashes to Squirrel, an orphan after the attack on Dewdenn. If he was even still alive, he was likely all alone, no one to take care of him, to love and protect him. Her heart aches at the thought, wishing she had made it to their meeting place.

“No, you just rob them of a home and family, leaving them alone to suffer the evils of the world,” Nimue points out, poking a hole in his moral facade.

Lancelot moves closer still, towering over her, his mouth opening as if to offer a rebuttal, but words do not come. She sees the brokenness in his eyes, hairline cracks that deepen, tear him apart as he realizes he cannot hide behind the lie anymore. Almost subconsciously, her hand finds its way to his face, fingers tentatively tracing every curve, every jagged depression of the ashen tears that mark him. She swims in his pain, drowns in it with him. His head falls, forehead resting on hers, his breath a whisper on her lips. “I--” Lancelot starts, his voice nearly breaking. Nimue waits for the realization she is certain is coming.  _ Finally.  _ “I think we should get some sleep,” he says, gently removing her hands from where they rest on his neck.

She holds onto his hands, refusing to let him step back. “Lancelot,” she pleads with her words, her eyes. 

He looks away, afraid of what he sees in her eyes, or maybe of what she will see in his. “Just, not tonight, Nimue,” he says, an evasive maneuver with just the smallest hint of promise.

She lets it go for the time being, knowing this will not be the end of the conversation.

****

Lancelot wakes early, annoyed that he cannot hide behind the distraction that sleep provides from the agonizing, endless waiting. The only other recourse is conversing with Nimue, but somehow that is worse than the silent torture of anticipating the arrival of a bird. With nothing to distract them, no danger to run from or fight off, her prodding and questioning is that much more potent against his defenses.

He tries not to think on her words from the day before, but they rattle around in his mind, like a restless animal trapped in a cage. She was an avalanche to his moral high ground, sending his self-righteous sanctimoniousness plummeting to the ground, shattering it in a way it could never be recovered. It had always been a weak defense, and he knew it, but now he can no longer deny the far-reaching effects of his cruelty. He lived to hurt others, and it is not something he can pretend to be proud of any longer. And, the way she had looked at him, like she was seeing through to his very soul... The thought was so appealing in that moment, his forehead touching hers, their breath mingling. But then terror struck. He remembered there was naught to him but darkness, his soul black as night, and he had recoiled from her touch.

Even if he was no longer Carden’s weapon, he has done far too many horrible, unforgivable things to ever be made clean. As the sin of his birth was too much for even God to purify, so his acts of violence and destruction against those who shared his blood were unatonable. Despite Nimue’s persuasion that he can be something different, something better, he does not think anyone else will be as forgiving or accepting. It leaves him uncertain, and he finds he does not like the feeling. 

When Nimue finally wakes, he tells her of his plan to spend the better part of the day hunting. “We do need to eat, after all,” he says. Half of a loaf of bread was not enough to sustain him for very long, and Lancelot guesses that Nimue likely feels the same.

“What if word comes from Merlin while you are away?” she asks as he prepares to leave.

He throws the strap of his bag over his shoulder, swords and dagger sheathed at his waist. “I will only be gone a few hours,” Lancelot says. “You have waited this long, surely a little longer would be okay?”

Nimue narrows her eyes, obviously annoyed by his response. 

He sighs. “If Merlin makes contact while I am away, just summon me, and I will return immediately.”

“Summon you? How do you expect me to do that?”

He laughs, turning to go. “Well, you read my mind the other day, so I am certain you could figure something out.” 

He does not need to see her to know she is rolling her eyes. “Goodbye, Lancelot,” she calls out after him. He waves a hand in the air in acknowledgement before leaving her behind.

Lancelot does not go too far, just far enough that her presence, her scent, like freshwater and the air after lightning strikes, is not too distracting. He dawdles, taking several hours to do what he could have done in one. He is finally alone, but it brings none of the comfort he had hoped for. It feels wrong, empty, in a way he does not care for. Is this what it would be like to be without Nimue once Merlin solves the mystery of their strange connection and he is able to go on his way? For some reason, the thought is unbearable to him now, being without her. Lancelot already does not know what to do without Carden and the Church; without Nimue, what would he have?  _ Nothing. _

Ignoring his foolish mind trying to decide that he needs her, Lancelot sits down under the shade of a tree, skinning the rabbits he had ensnared earlier--anything to keep him away from Nimue for a little longer. He is afraid if he does not take the time to remember himself, he will do something truly witless, like pledge himself to her.

If Carden knew his thoughts in this moment, he would smack him so hard they would come loose from his brain. But Carden no longer held sway over him, could no longer coerce him into slaying his Fey brothers and sisters in a futile quest for salvation. Further, for the first time in earnest, Lancelot wonders if it is not the Fey who are demons, but the men who so viciously seek to wipe them from existence. He thinks of Nimue. Surely, God would not create something so beautiful and pure as a mere agent of darkness? There must be some plan, some purpose that he is not privy to. As he walks back to their makeshift camp, skinned and gutted rabbits in tow, he tries to unravel the mystery that is his part in all of this. He comes up with nothing. That is, until Nimue comes into view. Then, he knows without a doubt that whatever his part, his place is by her side.

****

Two days later, Lancelot wakes to find Nimue swinging the Sword clumsily in practice. The sight warms his heart for some inexplicable reason. “You are going about that all wrong,” he calls out to her, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Nimue jumps, startled by his interjection. She turns, Sword hanging at her side, a vaguely annoyed expression on her face. “Perhaps you can help, rather than criticize from afar.”

Lancelot laughs at that, rising. “Aye, I suppose I can.” He comes to stand opposite of her, waiting expectantly. “Well,” he encourages, when she stares at him blankly, “show me your fighting stance.”

Nimue puts on what he is sure she thinks is a mean face, hands grasping the Sword’s pommel so tightly her knuckles turn white. One foot in front of the other, she is barely balanced; one wrong move will send her and her heavy Sword tumbling to the ground. He barely suppresses a laugh. She is like a child at play in a world she does not understand. “There are just so many things wrong with that,” he shakes his head. “Where to begin?” She whacks his arm with the blunt edge of the blade. “Alright, alright.” 

He moves to stand beside her so he can demonstrate proper form. “First, you will want to widen your stance, like this,” Lancelot says, moving his feet shoulder-width apart. She imitates his position, her stance much steadier now with the correction. “Next, you will want to loosen your grip.” She loosens her hold, but far too much. He stands behind her, hands encompassing her own as they hold the Sword, showing her just the right amount of strength required for a firm, but flexible grip. 

“Now, let’s see that swing again,” he instructs, his breath making the hair by her ear dance with each word. She demonstrates her swing, a wild, uncontainable energy, much like herself. “You want to be more controlled,” he tells her. “Make each strike direct and intentional.” Hands still surrounding hers, he shows her what he means. “You will inflict more damage this way, and save your strength.” She repeats the motion, practicing. “Much better,” Lancelot encourages, smiling even though she cannot see it. 

She leans into him ever so slightly turning her head to face him. “I think I am ready to spar now,” she says, smirking up at him.

He smirks right back, unconsciously adjusting his grip on her hands, which now rest near her stomach, sword lowered. “You think after one very brief lesson you are ready to take me on?”

“I could totally take you,” Nimue says in challenge, amusement bubbling just beneath the surface.

“In a fair fight?” Lancelot asks, raising a brow in doubt. 

Nimue looks at him, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Now, why would I fight fair when I have been cursed with such a highly effective natural advantage?”

“Why, indeed?” Lancelot asks with a chuckle, squeezing her hand almost affectionately. His mirth fades almost instantly as a series of images flash through his mind, uninvited.  _ A quaint home abutting a tranquil, serene lake, hidden by the dense, mystical wood. Himself, holding an infant, a boy, rocking him back and forth, his voice carrying softly on the breeze as he sings a lullaby. Nimue looking at him with undisguised adoration, gently taking the child from his arms.  _

He returns from his near catatonic state, eyes blinking violently back to reality. It had been no memory that had overtaken him, but a vision of the future. It was all the things he had dared not hope for: a home, a family, happiness. Could this truly be his fate, or was this just another attempt to manipulate him, to tempt him?

Before he can ask, a bird,  _ the  _ bird lands on the ground, a piece of parchment tied around its leg. Vision momentarily put aside, he releases Nimue so she can retrieve the message. She unties the scroll with shaky hands, nervously anticipating Merlin’s response.

She unrolls the missive, saying nothing, giving nothing away with her expression as she reads the words. He nearly snatches it from her hands, eager as he is, but he quickly thinks better of it. She looks up at him, face serious. “It is from Merlin.” He reigns in his skepticism, wanting to know what her purported father has to say. “He wants to meet at the old castle ruins, beyond Grammaire.”

“And how do we know this is not some sort of trap?” Lancelot asks, giving a voice to his suspicion. 

“Are you not supposed to be a man of faith?” Nimue asks, annoyed.

“Faith in God,” he corrects, “not in a demon wizard, who, by all accounts, seems to be no friend to the Fey.”

“Neither are you,” she says with a shrug, “and here you are.”

Lancelot sighs, not wanting to say aloud that he does not want to see her get hurt. “I just think we should be cautious, is all,” he says after a beat. “Are you sure he can be trusted?”

Her eyes fall to the words on the page once more, considering. “My mother trusted him,” she finally says. “That is enough for me.”

Nodding in acceptance, in agreement, he sets off to ready Goliath for their journey back toward Grammaire, filled with his own sense of anticipation for their meeting with Merlin. Perhaps he would finally get some answers, and with them, clarity and direction.  _ Only a few days’ time, now. _

****

The days blend together on the road to meet Merlin. They do not speak often, but they do not need to; Nimue knows every thought he has as if he had voiced it. Much to his embarrassment, he becomes aware of that fact when she responds to the flashback he has of his earlier vision, particularly, the baby in his arms. “So, I suppose  _ that,” _ she says, suggestively, “is not as impossible as you wanted me to believe.” 

He blushes, recalling their earlier conversation and the resulting stand-off on the road to Hawksbridge. “We are not talking about this,” Lancelot declares, his tone far more resolute than he feels. It is unnerving, the way she follows every avenue his mind travels. He refuses to have a repeat of their trip to Hawksbridge, so he keeps his mind staunchly on dull topics, such as the weather or the passing geography. It proves to be an exhausting test of his mental fortitude.

He slips up as they draw nearer to the ruins, pondering Merlin’s response to the news of his daughter’s quest. “I hope he will be excited to see me,” she says softly, “to meet this daughter he never knew he had.” 

He can hear the trepidation in her voice, and he chooses to focus on that instead of the fact she responded verbally to his errant thought. “I am sure he will be, Nimue,” he offers, squeezing her arm in a comforting assurance.

He tries to think of a time Carden had been excited to see him, but every memory he calls to mind is praise for the latest Fey village he had destroyed, encouragement for the food supply he had burned. Had Carden ever truly shown him the love of a father, or had he always been an instrument of destruction, a weapon to be used until it no longer served its purpose? No. For all his flaws, he was a zealous man, devoted singularly to God and not family, though he had called him son. He had always sought to honor and serve God, and he had taught Lancelot to do the same. But, Lancelot hardly knows what that means anymore. He had thought it meant fetching the Sword, or even killing Merlin, but, now, he is not so sure.

He comes out of his daze to find Nimue turned around, glaring in his direction, but it lacks any real venom.  _ Oh right.  _ He had all but confirmed his internal struggle and changing loyalties with that particular strand of thoughts. Lancelot awaits the conversation he is certain is coming--Nimue’s hints about redemption and sharing in a destiny that make them saviors of the Fey. It is all a bit too much for him. Oddly, she does not delve into that which sits so heavily on his heart. Instead, she teases him. “Just so you know,” she says with a smirk, “killing my long-lost father is not exactly the way you want to go about starting a family with me.”

It is not the innuendo, the effortless seduction that does him in. It is the thought of being her family, of a son, the product of their lov--. Lancelot feels a shift in the air, something old and vaguely magical prickling at his senses. He is glad for the distraction, having come close to admitting something to himself, and no doubt, Nimue. While he had been lost in thought, they had approached the ruins; alert now, he is overcome with strife, tragedy, loss, and hope, an essence of feeling, an amalgamated mood that lives in the space and the person who occupies it.  _ Merlin. _


	14. Strange Magic

The ruins sit in a wide open field, flanked by trees on every side. There is something haunting about what remains of the ancient structure, some eerie calm that rests over the grounds. As she enters what she imagines was once a great hall, Nimue sees a bag on the ground and a staff resting against the crumbling stone wall. “Hello?” she calls out, bidding Merlin reveal himself. Lancelot stands just a short distance behind her, hand hovering over his sword’s hilt. There is no sign of Merlin, and yet, he is here. She feels it. Nimue reaches a hand out hesitantly to touch the staff.

“It is like looking at Lenore herself,” she hears a voice rumble across the room in the open air. She withdraws her hand, momentarily startled.

“I’ve been told there is a resemblance,” she states, stepping toward him. He does not advance toward her, rather, lazily circles her like an uninterested predator. That is, until his eyes narrow as they settle on the Sword. 

“Every second you hold that sword, the danger to your life increases.” Merlin holds a hand outstretched. “Pass it to me so we can spare you this threat.”

Just like that? Suddenly, she is not so eager to relinquish her burden. She finds herself considering Lancelot’s skepticism--she would need some answers before the Sword left her possession. “Why did my mother want me to bring the Sword to you? Who are you to her?”  _ To me?  _ goes unspoken, but it lingers in the air between them all the same. “Did she love you?” She knows, but she needs to hear it from him.

Merlin surveys the room as if seeing something she cannot. “Perhaps it would be better if I showed you rather than told you,” he says mysteriously, walking off. 

She follows him, Lancelot not far behind. “I’ve not come for parlor tricks or childish magic. You will tell me what I need to know.”

Merlin turns to face her once more, sizing her up. “My, you are quite direct.” He gives a small laugh. “I suppose it is a good thing you did not inherit my talent for prevarication.”

So it is true. It is a small relief to hear his confirmation, even if he had not said it in so many words. Still, he is being evasive, noncommittal, and she needs certainty right now. “We do not have time to waste. Did you not say that every moment the Sword remains in my grasp, the threat to my life increases?”

"Speaking of threats,” Merlin begins, his gaze settling on Lancelot for the first time, “care to venture how many souls the Widow has collected at his behest?” Merlin is more aloof than venomous, as if even a dangerous man like Lancelot poses no threat to him in the slightest. Merlin continues on to what must have once been another room. “A great many,” he says, throwing the answer to his own rhetorical question over his shoulder with nonchalance.

“Lancelot is no threat to me,” Nimue calls after Merlin. Her certainty must give him pause.

“Lancelot?” Merlin queries. “So the infamous Weeping Monk has a name after all?” Merlin looks between the two of them before focusing his attention on Nimue. “How is it that the most tangible threat to the Fey has become your trusted travelling companion?”

How, indeed? Before she can think of how to explain Lancelot’s presence and their mysterious bond centered around the Sword, Lancelot replies, “there will be plenty of time to share that story once you have answered your daughter’s questions.” His tone is firm, leaving no room for argument.

After a long moment spent considering Lancelot, he turns his attention back to her. “You need only trust me, Nimue. All will be revealed soon.”

“I would like nothing more than to trust you, father, but everyone I have heard speak your name has called you a deceiver, a traitor.” The word ‘father’ feels strange coming from her mouth, and if his reaction is any indication, it is strange for him to hear as well.

“I won’t deceive you, Nimue. Now or ever.” 

Nimue searches his face for even a hint of dishonesty. She finds nothing. As she is about to nod her head in agreement, she hears whispers, a conversation imbued with passion, anger and tragedy. “Who is that? Who is here with us?” Nimue demands, feeling betrayed. “You said you would come alone.”

“Festa and Moreii,” Merlin responds, as if that should mean something to her. At the way she lifts her brows in confusion, he continues. “Lovers from enemy clans,” Merlin explains, looking intently between the pair of them. “They came here to die together,” he gestures toward a cracked stone bench, “in this very spot. With their help, you can see the past with your own eyes.”

Nimue reins in her litany of questions, hoping that whatever Merlin has planned will give her the assurance she needs to honor her mother’s final wish. She sits beside him on the bench, watching warily as he removes a strand of beads from the pocket of his cloak. He moves the beads one at a time, each one clacking against the one before. “I will be just outside, in the courtyard, if you need me,” Lancelot says, but she hardly hears him, taken over by the hypnotic sound of beads. Suddenly, she sees not castle ruins, but Dewdenn.  _ The temple. An injured, delirious Merlin stumbling toward the altar. Life drains from him, the perfect prey for the Widow, but then her mother appears. _

****

Lancelot sits in the courtyard, his back against the stone ruins, taking in the eerie atmosphere of preserved decay around him. He is unsettled, by more than just the enigmatic wizard who also happens to be Nimue’s father. He just cannot quite get a read on the man, no doubt due to his self-proclaimed proclivity toward prevarication. Merlin does not appear to be acting in the interest of the Fey, but rather, his own, a fact that has Lancelot pondering the man’s motivation.

He is not quite embedded in the past, in Merlin’s memory as she is, but he sees enough through her mind’s eye. He winces when the woman who could be none other than Nimue’s mother cuts into Merlin’s flesh and draws out a sword from under his skin. Runes glow along the blade as they had when he had cut down the Paladin. It is  _ the  _ Sword. So, it belonged to him at one point in time. And Nimue’s mother knew it. 

Lancelot blushes at Nimue’s protest of Merlin’s very vivid memory of his and Lenore’s lovemaking. It was one thing to seek confirmation that he was her father--it was another entirely to see her conception play out before her eyes. 

He sees more than he wants to before another memory takes its place. Merlin is furious, searching for the Sword. He tears the temple apart, but he finds nothing. A few cruel words said in anger, and he is gone, never to be seen in Dewdenn again. Why had she hidden the Sword from him? And why did she want him to have it back, now?

Before he can get too lost in his thoughts, he hears voices heading toward the courtyard. After the memories they had shared, Lancelot can sense some of the tension has lifted between Merlin and Nimue, the latter joking that her father had invited her to a great hall and provided no food. Merlin seems almost flustered, searching for some semblance of nourishment he could offer up. Finding nothing but withered trees, he suggests that Nimue reanimate the wilted branches. She protests, saying that her magic is uncontrollable, that the Hidden will not listen to her. Having been on the receiving end of her magic more than once, Lancelot does not think that is entirely true. Merlin goads her to anger with some comment about her mother, validating Lancelot’s thought that anger, fear, betrayal, and other negative emotions serve as a sort of fuel for her magic, and that she was not fully aware of that. 

“Now, create an intent and surrender it to the Hidden.”

Nimue stands beside her father, taking his direction with closed eyes. Lancelot sits with his back to the stone wall, having nothing to contribute to this lesson in magic.

He is not even conscious of what he is doing, thoughts of hatred--for himself, for Carden, for the Fey, he knows not, anymore--taking control of his mind. He is a void of anger, but from him grows fire and darkness.  _ Lancelot.  _ He curses the name he is so desperate to reclaim, the man that Nimue would have him be.  _ Lancelot.  _

“Extraordinary,” Merlin murmurs, looking upon the tree in marvel. “It burns, and yet it grows.”

It is a contradiction, an impossibility, and yet, Lancelot cannot deny what his eyes see. He tempers the anger he did not even realize burned inside him, and the flames extinguish, the tree remaining unburnt and fruitful. For the first time, Merlin looks truly surprised, perplexed, even. “What trick of the mind caused that, I wonder?”

“I thought of someone I love,” Nimue says, her voice quiet. “But, Lancelot,” she begins, turning to face him, drawing Merlin’s attention to him as well. 

He should be horrified, but somehow this is just one more thing on the long list of impossible, unbelievable things that have happened to him since he came upon Nimue and her cursed Sword. Lancelot can feel the weight of Merlin’s gaze on him, settling just below his eyes. “Ah, Ash Folk,” he says, as if the marks beneath Lancelot’s eyes offer some explanation for how he had just set a tree afire with his mind. “How long have you been practicing magic?” Merlin asks. 

“I haven’t,” Lancelot replies. “Through whatever twisted connection the Sword has forged between us, Nimue drew it out of me.” 

“Tell me of this connection,” Merlin demands, and Lancelot is hopeful that perhaps Merlin can piece together this puzzle. Nimue gives the two of them some space, and Lancelot details the days he has spent linked to Nimue, leaving out the more sensual parts. Even if Merlin had only been her father for a day, he was unlikely to appreciate an in-depth description of all the ways Lancelot has lusted after his daughter. 

“Why me?” Lancelot whispers, eyes following Nimue as she passes underneath exposed archways, before finally fading from view. “Why am I linked to this, to her?” he asks Merlin, desperate, but afraid to hear an answer.

“I hardly know,” Merlin responds, as though he is just as perplexed as Lancelot. Despair reaches out with its claws, threatening to rip into his chest. He had needed resolution, some kind of revelation, but instead he is left with uncertainty and a far greater conflict.

“Nimue was right to doubt me,” Merlin begins, reflective. “The Sword inspires darkness and cruelty above all else, and I let it corrupt my heart into mistaking murder for mercy.” The man looks him in the eye then. “But you know something of that, do you not?”

Lancelot does not meet Merlin’s eye, but he can hardly deny his claim. “Indeed.”

“Perhaps you were meant to steer her away from darkness, recognize it creeping up before she could. A sort of balance, a counterweight, if you will.”

Lancelot considers it, thrown by the suggestion that he could be Nimue’s better half. He would not have to think about it for long; surely, if that was the reason for their connection, then it would come to nothing when she no longer held the Sword. It should be a relief, but it leaves him feeling hollow. She would have no need for him without the Sword. And he was supposed to return to life before her? That felt like more of an impossibility than his little display of magic earlier.

Before he can attempt to squeeze out any more drops of wisdom from the old wizard, Nimue comes running back into the courtyard, breathing heavily. “Pendragon’s soldiers approach from the woods,” she tells Lancelot, glaring in Merlin’s direction. “It seems Merlin has betrayed me, that he means to give the Sword over to Uther Pendragon, with no regard for the lives of the Fey.”

“I did not, I swear to you,” Merlin starts, but Nimue pays his protest no mind. 

“We must go, now,” she urges Lancelot. He is reluctant, but only for a moment, grabbing her hand and hurrying toward where they had left Goliath, a fleeting glance back at Merlin, the purported solution to all their problems.

As they ride away from the ruins and from danger, Lancelot cannot help but feel that they had been given clarity shrouded in confusion, and that the future is more uncertain now than ever.


	15. Breathless

They ride frantically through the woods, Lancelot only slowing Goliath’s pace when he feels confident they have long left Pendragon's soldiers behind. He can feel Nimue’s anger simmering, radiating from her skin near tangibly. Merlin had betrayed her. Where did that leave them? On the run, and with more questions than before. Before, she had had a clear goal, a directive from her mother: find Merlin. And now that Merlin had proven untrustworthy, what would she do? She had no family, no friends she could turn to. There was only him. And the countless enemies she had amassed for simply holding that Sword.

And, what of him? Her anchor against the Sword’s machinations, its dark temptation? It must have been a lie, Merlin toying with him. He was a self-proclaimed master of prevarication, after all. Still, something in Lancelot longed for it to be true, if only because it was a new purpose for him to latch onto. For all his conviction that the witch and her Sword must be brought to the Church, he finds himself wanting to do the opposite, to protect her from harm, to aid her in the next step of her quest. In his soul, it feels wrong to do anything else.

After several long hours of riding, they stop for the night, Merlin and the soldiers left behind them, but undoubtedly not from their minds. He can feel Nimue’s turmoil, her anxiety in trying to plan for the future.  _ Find Merlin.  _ That had been the end goal. She had thought of nothing beyond that. And now, beyond was the only thing on her mind. 

Lancelot brings a hand to her shoulder, absorbing some of her tension. He sees her visibly unwind, just a touch, at the contact. She looks up at him, a million questions threatening to spill from her tongue, before he squeezes her shoulder once more. “Why don’t you get some rest, Nimue. We can figure this out in the morning.”

She looks like she wants to argue, to stay up until the morning light planning for what comes next, but then a yawn overtakes her. Nimue nods, reluctantly, bringing a hand up to her shoulder to cover his own. She does not say anything, just looks at him, exhaustion seeping through her pores unable to be contained a moment longer. Finally, she steps away from him, turning her back as she seeks out a place to rest. 

In minutes, she is fast asleep, the steady rise and fall of her chest indicating a peace only sleep could bring. A peace she certainly no longer has while waking. He removes the blanket from his saddlebag before settling down beside her, draping it over her and himself. Lancelot laces his fingers together behind his head, resting it in the space. It is not long before sleep finds him as well, his lids shuttering, weighted down like a man in water, pockets full of stone, much like his heart, the future remaining unclear in his mind.

****

In her dreams Nimue sees her mother. She imagines another life, one where she had a father. A father who loved her, who never made her feel alone or rejected because she was different.  _ Merlin.  _ She was happy. They all were. She belonged somewhere, was truly at home. Then, she is somewhere else. A castle. Or, what used to be a castle. Now, it lies in ruin, steeped in memory and regret. She smiles as she brings the tree to life, ruby red apples dangling from its branches, the vibrant fruit proof that she is capable of more than just destruction. Merlin smiles at her, and she revels in the moment, but then he pulls the Sword from her sheath and plunges it through her heart, the smile never leaving his face.

Nimue startles awake, sitting up violently as her lungs threaten to burst. She reaches for the Sword, to ensure it is still there, to draw comfort from it, she knows not, but the cold feel of steel against her throat stops her hand before it can find her sheath. 

“I would not do that if I were you,” the low voice at the other end of the sword warns. Nimue looks up, her eyes settling on a fearsome Fey warrior, her ebony skin containing sharp cheekbones and even sharper eyes. “Now, tell me,” the woman says, her blade unrelenting, “how does a Fey maiden sleep so peacefully beside the Fey-killer?” Her tone is laden with disgust, and it is only then that Nimue notices Lancelot close beside her, a blade resting on the tell-tale mark beneath his eye. 

The man holding the sword, a green helmet covering most of his face, kicks Lancelot’s ribs at the moniker. Nimue can feel the anger, the hatred this man holds for the Weeping Monk, and she winces with Lancelot at the blow. Suddenly, the green-helmed man has fixed his attention on her. “Nimue?” the man asks, confusion muddling his tone. 

Nimue looks up at the man above Lancelot, mirroring his confusion. It is not until he removes his helmet that recognition strikes. “Gawain?” She stares at him, dumbfounded. “What--? How--?”

“I should be asking you the same question,” he returns, sharp, protective. “You must know who it is you lay beside?”

Nimue winces when she imagines how this must look to Gawain and his party. “I do,” she whispers, her statement honest, but feeling leagues from the truth. 

“Has he hurt you?” Gawain asks, scanning her body for evidence of violence, insinuating something based on their proximity that it is obvious Lancelot does not much like if the way he glowers at Gawain is any indication. 

Nimue lets out a slow breath, pushing aside the memory of his hand closed around her throat, of his many threats, of his kisses. “No.” Gawain looks at her skeptically. “I was his prisoner.”

“Was?” Gawain inquires, brow furrowed.

“Was,” Nimue repeats, offering him no clarification. “It is a long story,” she tells him, gesturing slowly toward the blade at her throat, “and not one I want to tell on my back at the business end of a sword.”

He considers her at length before his eyes flash to Lancelot, who, blessedly, has remained quiet throughout this encounter. She has a feeling that any word from him, even the truth, would not be met kindly by Gawain. The man’s hatred lingered, never far from the surface, even when he addressed Nimue. His eyes return to her, and he nods, motioning for the woman to withdraw her blade.

Nimue breathes more freely, now that the sharp metal no longer threatens her sensitive flesh. She reaches for her sheath not far from her side, pulling the Sword out enough to reveal the ancient Fey script. “It all started with this Sword,” Nimue begins. 

Gawain’s eyes widen, stunned. “The Sword of the First Kings? Of our people? How have you come to possess this?”

Nimue bites back tears as she thinks of her mother, her pleasant dream not far from her mind as she recalls the horror she had survived. “The Paladins came to Dewdenn. Killed my mother.” Anger and sadness battle for control on Gawain’s face, but she continues, before he can turn the blame to Lancelot. “Before she died, she gave me this Sword,” Nimue says, hand tightening around the cursed blade. “Told me to bring it to Merlin.”

“Merlin?” Gawain asks in disbelief. She can see him mentally taking steps backward. “But how did Lenore come to have to sword? And why would she want to give it to the King’s magician?”

“Because he is my father,” Nimue says in a small voice, but with no small amount of bitterness, “and the Sword once belonged to him.” Nimue thinks of the memory Merlin had shared, of the blade being torn, agonizingly from his flesh. Of how he hated it, but needed it. Lancelot’s eyes meet hers then, and he shares her worry that she, too, might come to depend on it. Perhaps, she already had.

“She told you this?” Gawain asks, drawing her out of her thoughts and back into her story. 

“Merlin did.”

“You saw him?” She nods. “And yet, you still have the Sword?” She can tell he is trying to piece together the confusion that is her current reality. 

“He betrayed me. It seems he meant to turn the Sword over to Uther Pendragon. So we fled.” She buries the hurt that Merlin’s betrayal stirred. “And that is how you find us now, recently escaped from Pendragon’s soldiers.”

“That explains the Sword--” 

“--Barely,” she hears the fierce woman interject beneath her breath. 

“--But you have yet to tell us how the Weeping Monk came to be your travelling companion on your quest.”

Nimue does not know where to start, how to properly describe the events of the past few weeks. “The Church wants that Sword, and to make an example of the witch who wielded it. I was sent to--” Gawain places a heavy boot on Lancelot’s chest, crushing the air from his lungs. 

“I did not ask you, Monk,” Gawain spits, pressing the sole of his foot even further into Lancelot’s lungs. He turns back to Nimue. “So he captured you with the intention of turning you over to his murderous father, and yet here you stand, unharmed, Sword still in your possession and looking not at all like an unwilling prisoner, unless my eyes deceive me? I know this man to be without mercy, so why is it he has not killed you?” Gawain asks, almost accusatorily.

“Circumstances temporarily aligned our goals,” Lancelot says through a wheeze, and Nimue feels certain that the idiot is trying to bait the Fey knight into violence. Gawain applies enough pressure to his chest that Lancelot grunts sharply in pain, and suddenly, Nimue collapses, holding her chest in agony, like someone is trying to wring every last drop of air from her lungs, like wine from a wineskin. 

Alarmed, Gawain leaves Lancelot to fall by her side, sighing with relief when she straightens and breathes deeply. He looks back at the monk in confusion. “How--?”

She sits up, lungs feeling bruised, but otherwise unharmed. “We are linked, he and I, to the Sword, to each other, by some dark magic.” She coughs. “A link that grows stronger and more troublesome day by day. Will you help me, Gawain?” she begs, seeing now what she is meant to do next.

Before he can answer, he is interrupted by the dark-skinned woman. “We have lingered here too long,” she tells him, concerned. “We must return.”

Gawain looks conflicted, but then he snaps into action, decisive as Nimue remembers him. “Restrain the Monk,” he says, pulling Nimue to her feet. “We must return to Nemos.”


	16. God Only Knows

The bindings chafe at Lancelot’s wrists, and he is tempted to break free of them, but he has no desire to reveal his true nature to the Green Knight and his Fey companions. It would likely only make the man hate him more. He is surprised Nimue had not revealed his secret in some misguided attempt to gain him her friend’s sympathy, but then, she might not mean to help him at all.  _ Will you help me, Gawain?  _ she had begged, and if that didn’t chafe at him more than his restraints. She did not need him anymore, surrounded by potential allies. She would charm them, distance herself from him, from this connection that had changed his life, and then the Green Knight would execute him for his crimes. Crimes against his people.

He remembers the way Nimue had collapsed with pain when it was his lungs being crushed.  _ Perhaps not. If hurting me means hurting her, then perhaps this link can for once be used to my advantage.  _

Nimue glares down at him from her perch on his horse.  _ Is that what you think of me?  _

The words rattle around in his brain as he considers them. He had thought her manipulative, meaning to seduce him to get her way, and maybe that had been her goal, but a lot had changed since he first met her.  _ He  _ had changed. So had whatever connection burned between them, taking root in his heart, until something other than hate, and cruelty grew from the deepest parts of him. But, they were not alone anymore. The bubble had popped, and now, she would remember him for what he truly was, not what he finally admitted to himself he hoped he could be.  _ It would be smart of you. A survivor’s move.  _ He tries for nonchalant, unfeeling, but he knows Nimue is not convinced. 

_ I don’t care about that.  _ She is angry. He does not know why that surprises him.  _ Nothing has changed,  _ she responds, their companions unaware of their silent conversation. 

Nothing has changed. What did that even mean? His entire world had changed since her arrival in it, and now, he could feel the hope he had been so reluctant to nourish being snatched away from him.  _ If you say so.  _

He shuts her out after that, focuses only on the dirt beneath his feet as he follows where he is led. Nemos. Undoubtedly a Fey sanctuary by the reverence with which the Green Knight had spoken of it. And he is being led there. As a prisoner. Not exactly how he thought this mission would play out when he had begun tracking her. Nothing had gone to plan. He was a prisoner. Carden was dead. He did not believe in his purpose anymore.

Something like guilt, like regret swirled in his gut at the thought of all the harm he had caused. To the Fey. To people like him. Just because they were different. And they would never forgive him for it, never accept him as one of their own, even if he turned from his destructive path. And he had, he realizes. He had made the decision when he had seen that burning, flourishing apple tree, he just hadn’t known until now. 

They arrived in Nemos what felt like hours later, Lancelot taking in the sizable settlement hidden away in the forest. He saw Fey from various clans, taking in all the features that marked them as something other than human. Instead of the disgust that had been ingrained in him since childhood, he looked on in wonder at the beauty and diversity of God’s creation. There was no other word besides beautiful to describe this place.

He is dragged through the mouth of a cave behind Nimue and his captors, knowing some important decision is about to be made. His fate is to be determined. Before the Green Knight can deliver his sentence he hears, “Nimue?” and watches as a smile spills across her face as she embraces the girl who spoke. Her friend at the abbey.

“Igraine!” Nimue exclaims through a happy chuckle, delighted to see another friendly face. 

“Morgana,” the former nun corrects, and he can tell Nimue wants to ask about it before her mind settles on the tragedy at the abbey.

“You escaped? The fire?”

The girl looks positively haunted at the mention of her former home, a look Lancelot recognizes readily; he had seen it on many a face after he had burned a village to the ground, or killed a loved one. She schools her expression as she sees him bound, surrounded by Fey warriors. “You brought us the Weeping Monk?” she surveys him, almost impressed. 

“Not quite,” the Green Knight offers, briefly summing up what Nimue had told him.

The girl, Morgana, is quiet for a moment, considering what she has been told. “But, she wields  _ the  _ Sword,” she says intently to the Green Knight. “We need that, need  _ her _ , if we are to have any hope of uniting the clans against Pendragon and the Church.”

So that is it, then. Her destiny. Queen of the Fey, wielder of the Sword of the First Kings. The Wolf-Blood Witch, striking fear into the hearts of mortal men unlucky enough to so much as hear her name. It makes sense now, her purpose, the reason the Sword chose her. 

Nimue, who has been silent up until now, speaks with no small amount of hesitation, of disbelief. “Me? Unite the clans? I am an outcast. A witch.” She looks at Lancelot, briefly. “A traitor.”

“Not a traitor,” Morgana says, “a hero. You fought back against Carden and the men who destroyed your village, killed your mother.” She glances at Lancelot again, a gleam in her eye. “You reformed the deadliest Fey hunter, the Weeping Monk, turned him against the Church and brought him into your service.”

Nimue opens her mouth to argue, but the Green Knight interrupts her, sharing his reluctant revelation. “She is right. This could work.” He studies Lancelot uncertainly. “But how do we know this isn’t some sort of trap, that we have not led him exactly where he wants to be, that this was not all part of some scheme to find and root out what remains of the Fey?”

All eyes are on him, but it is Nimue who speaks. “Carden is dead, and he is linked to the Sword, same as I am. You say it is my destiny to save the Fey, then it is his destiny, too.” He nods, knowing what she wants to say next and giving her permission she did not need to ask for. “All Fey are brothers, even the lost ones. Our brother comes to you now, no longer lost.” He sees the words settle heavily with the Green Knight. “Will you welcome him home?”

Surprise and anger war for dominance on the Green Knight’s face, but finally, he pushes them both aside, removing a knife from his belt and stepping toward Lancelot. He knows this man has no wish to harm Nimue, and still he is convinced the Green Knight means to kill him. He certainly could never forgive him. Not after what Lancelot had done to him, the way he had tormented him. The man cuts the rope from around his wrists, freeing his hands. “You are welcome here, my brother.” He can feel Nimue let out a relieved breath. The Green Knight pulls him closer and speaks only for him to hear. “If you so much as think about betraying our people, I will kill you, monk,” his voice is low, threatening, as he glances to where Nimue stands over Lancelot’s shoulder, “even if it means she dies with you.”

Lancelot was used to men trying to intimidate him, but their words were always empty--he bested them with his far superior skill. But the Green Knight, his threat has weight. More weight than he could possibly know. He could not allow harm to befall Nimue, not because of his actions. He cared more for her than the salvation that Father Carden so ardently convinced him he needed to pursue by ridding the world of demons. Even if he had not decided of his own volition to abandon what he had thought was his life’s purpose, the Green Knight’s words would have convinced him to forsake his vows in an instant. “The Fey have nothing to fear from me,” he promises the man. And he means it.

****

Nimue, a Queen. She had thought it a truly ridiculous notion when Morgana had first mentioned it, and even after hours of conversation, the idea seems no less absurd. Still, something in her knows this is what she is meant to, that this is why she could not just let go of the Sword, give it over to Merlin, why she did not kill Lancelot when she had first overpowered him. Perhaps this is her purpose. Perhaps all the pain in her life has been leading her to this moment, to this cause. She thinks of the scared, angry girl who had refused the Hidden’s call to be Summoner. How could that same girl now take on what felt like the world? 

In her fixation, she walked right into Lancelot who was wandering about in wonder, a look so foreign on him she had to do a double-take to make sure she was not imagining things. “You are not the same girl you were,” he tells her, bringing a hand up to her arm to steady her, responding as if she had voiced her concern to him. It should be annoying, such an invasion into her private thoughts, but at the moment, it is comforting. It makes her feel less alone. “Just as I am not the same hateful, self-righteous man I thought I would always be.”

This is it, the moment she had been waiting so desperately for, the reckoning, the change in him. She looks up at him, not bothering to quench her hope when she sees it reflected in his eyes. Nimue leans into him, feeling more at home than she ever has, when she feels a small hand tugging on her arm. 

“Nimue!” a small voice cries out, pulling her away from Lancelot and into his embrace. Squirrel. He was alive! 

Nimue falls to her knees, wrapping the boy up in her arms as tears of joy fall down her cheeks. She pulls back momentarily, surveying him for any injuries. “You’re alright? How did you get here?” she wonders aloud, curious what had happened to him after they had been separated. 

“The Green Knight found me and brought me here, and now he is training me to become a knight like him!” the boy exclaims enthusiastically, barely coming up for air between words. Finally, he notices Lancelot, and Nimue can tell that upon further inspection, he recognizes the man. “You? What are you doing here?” he demands, angrily.

Nimue seeks to soothe the riled boy, brushing a hand through his hair. “Lancelot is my friend, Squirrel, and he is here to help us.”

“No!” Squirrel yells and turns on his little heel to run away. Nimue rises, staring after him stunned.  _ I’m sorry,  _ she mouths to Lancelot as she rushes after the boy who is the closest thing to family she has left.


	17. Of Monsters and Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you came here for plot...

Lancelot remains stuck in place, looking after Nimue and the boy. He remembers what Nimue had said about leaving children all alone in this world, about how sparing the lives of the young was no great act of mercy as he wanted to pretend it was. If his reaction to Lancelot is any indication, this boy must have lost his parents in the sacking of Dewdenn. It is possible Lancelot is directly to blame, and even if he is not, the association is enough to rain guilt over him like a tidal wave.

It is not like he expected forgiveness from these people. And certainly not acceptance. Yet, a part of him craves it, belonging. He feels it with Nimue, like he is finally home after a long and perilous journey in the wilderness. Perhaps one day he will feel that with the Fey. He thinks of the boy’s disgust and the Green Knight’s animosity.  _ Better not hold your breath on that one.  _

He is about to leave, find some shelter for the night, when he hears her voice in his head.  _ I did not have a choice, Squirrel! The Sword linked us together, and I would be dead if I had not befriended that monster.  _

His ears ring at the words, disorienting him.  _ Monster.  _ So that is what she thinks of him, after all. It should not hurt. He is a monster, a villain, and he had known from the start she sought to manipulate him. It might make him angry if his conscience did not tell him that her manipulation set him on a better, truer, path, and he would not abandon that just because he was slighted by a girl. A girl he had thought loved--.  _ No. She could never.  _ He turns on his heel then, seeking a place he could rest in solitude, something he knew well.

****

Nimue is busy over the next several weeks, building herself up as a figurehead the Fey can trust and depend on. There are lots of meetings and speeches and it is all so exhausting, but she finally feels like she is doing some good. She hardly sees Lancelot, save for at those strategy meetings. He tells them of Paladin camps and tactics, and they become more proactive in their fight against the Church, stopping attacks on villages before they start and taking key resources away from the men in red. Gawain still does not accept him, but they have a reluctant sort of truce, and she is happy for it. 

It is early in the afternoon when she attends another such meeting. The Paladins have taken Grammaire, it seems, resting safely behind its fortified walls. “How do you know this?” she asks of Gawain. Scouting parties had not gone out far enough to see with their own eyes, and it was hard to know who to trust these days. Morgana leads someone into the tent then, a man.  _ Arthur.  _

“I fled the city when the Paladins took it. Before they could interrogate me about a certain Sword.” He looks pointedly at the weapon at her side, and then levels a glare a Lancelot before meeting her gaze. “They speak of you often, the Wolf-Blood Witch. Dozens of men seek you for the reward of getting the glory of the kill, though I suspect none will be as successful as your friend over there.” She does not need to follow his gesture to know he speaks of Lancelot. She absorbs the information, ignoring the way he tries to bait her. Nimue turns to Gawain for his opinion.

“If we take the city, that is their last stronghold. They are leaderless, and their numbers will be too few,” Gawain observes. 

So it could work.

“Rome may send reinforcements,” Lancelot offers, quietly. “The Pope is not one to suffer embarrassment lightly.”

There were always too many possibilities. It made making decisions near impossible sometimes, always fretting over what could be or if another way would be better. And she alone got to bear the weight of those decisions. They looked to her now to decide, as if the Sword gave her some sort of insight. “We will deal with that if it comes,” she announces, determined to face the current threat without thinking about the threats that were sure to come. “In the meantime, we should plan to take Grammaire.”

She hears muffled agreement as the meeting adjourns, but Lancelot only nods shortly before leaving the tent. Nimue wants to go after him, but there is Arthur to deal with first. 

“So, now you are an ally to the Fey?” she asks him, skeptical. 

He sighs, releasing his earlier hostility. “I am truly sorry, Nimue, for stealing the Sword from you. I am sorry for the trouble I caused you.” He seems genuine, and Nimue is taken back to that first day in Hawksbridge, when he had been sweet and helpful. “If you will let me, I would serve you now, help you protect your people.” This feels more like the man she met, the one she had thought so highly of. And, she had the Sword now. While his betrayal had hurt, she was safe now, the Sword once again in her possession, and she did not think it wise to turn away such a strong fighter. 

“You will serve me with honor, I am sure,” she says, and she finds she means it. There is honor in admitting your mistakes, in trying to rectify them, and she will not deny Arthur that chance. 

He looks at her then, his gratitude heartfelt as he kneels before her. “I swear it, my Queen.”

****

There is a Joining a few nights later. Spirits have been high in Nemos after their recent victories over the Paladins and the celebratory atmosphere feels earned. Nimue brushes her hair behind her ear, unused to the way it all hangs freely about her face. Her blue skirt swishes as she moves with the music, and the smile on her face stays firmly in place as she observes the joyous couple and the merry onlookers. She feels...carefree. For the first time in her life, she feels  _ right,  _ like this is exactly where she is supposed to be. And, this one night, there is no need to worry, to fret over what may come. Those troubles would be around in the morning. Tonight, she is just a girl, not a Queen.

She sees Lancelot at the back of the crowd, standing alone, as had become his habit. She has missed him, missed the sense of closeness that they had developed on the road. Here, she feels distant from him, and it is...strange. He feels less a part of her than he did, like their connection has dulled where it had only been growing before. 

Nimue cuts through the crowd toward him, wanting to pull him into the celebration, but then someone pulls her in, spinning her around in time to the music. She sees warm brown eyes, alight with laughter and the magic of the night, and she lets herself be twirled and spun and held, and it is nice. 

When the song ends, she thanks Arthur for the dance and skips through the crowd to the beat of a new tune, hoping to find Lancelot. She searches through one song, then another, but the brooding monk is nowhere to be found. She means to seek him out, she does, but then Morgana pulls at her hand, drawing her into a lively dance. Nimue enjoys the rush of it, the quick shuffling of her feet, but then she is overtaken, her thoughts, feelings not her own.

_ Everything is warm. So deliciously warm. Relaxing. There is a hunger, a desire. It is too much, it is all too much. She radiates with it, with warmth, desire, and it builds, it builds until it feels like she might burst. Then, she sees white, as the warmth spreads to every nerve in her body, her entire being tingling with pleasure, with satisfaction.  _

She sighs as she comes back to herself, her eyes opening to find a crowd lost in the music, no one paying her any mind as she comes down from the blissful high. She is on edge now, worked up, and it suddenly seems imperative that she find Lancelot. Lancelot, who, no doubt was the cause of that...whatever that had been. She blushes at the very recent memory of it. She is not so innocent as to be unaware of the cause of such feelings; Nimue remembers overhearing the chatter and giggles amongst the other girls in Dewdenn as they spoke of their hushed midnight couplings. But, it had just been Lancelot. Thinking of her. Her body feels warm again, and this time not from some shared fantasy, a waking fever dream.

Nimue walks, unsure where she is going, but with purpose all the same. After several long minutes of wandering through the trees the music and merriment has faded, and she comes across a path through the stony outcropping. As she walks through, she feels the temperature rise, feels steam on her face as she discovers the hot spring. Lancelot rests in the water, his back against the rock’s rough edge, eyes closed. 

She knows he can sense her there, yet his eyes remain closed, and he says not a word to her. Before she can think better of it, she has stripped and stepped into the water, until it covers her up to her shoulders. It is only then that he opens his eyes, looking at her warily. “You should get back to the celebration,” he tells her. “Someone is bound to notice you are missing.”

Nimue shrugs, her breasts barely remaining beneath the water’s surface with the motion, a fact she can tell does not escape Lancelot’s attention. “Why are you here?” he asks her, after a beat, his question feeling more like an accusation. 

She thinks of the warmth, the bliss. “Maybe I missed you,” she shrugs again, raising her shoulders just a bit higher than the last time. 

****

Lancelot swallows, catching a glimpse of a tight, rosy nipple before it falls beneath the water once more. He had come here to clear his head, to forget about her, this woman he yearned for who thought him a monster. But, somehow, instead of forgetting, he obsessed, recalling the sight of her bare skin, the feel of her tongue against his. He had imagined her in the water with him, buried deep in her, giving herself to him, and he got lost in the fantasy, hand wrapped around himself, bringing a pleasure she never would. 

He had immediately felt guilty about it. But, now she is here, mere feet away from him, suggesting, what, exactly? He sees the glimmer in her eyes, and he knows without question that their connection had betrayed his little fantasy to her. He can feel the nervous energy thrumming from her bare body, mirroring his own. She drifts closer to him, until she is close enough to touch. And he wants to. Touch her. Wants to confirm his suspicion about how she will feel wrapped around him, but he keeps his hands firmly at his sides. “Beware the monsters in the water,” he whispers as she brings a hand up to his face. 

She studies him curiously, her hand tracing the lines beneath his left eye before trailing down his neck. She leans in, her intent clear, and he shivers, despite the water’s warmth, when her lips touch his. He lets her kiss him for a moment, even pulls her closer, but then she moans when his tongue finds hers, and he remembers himself. She did not want this. She was drawn to him because of the Sword, because of their connection, not because she wanted him.  _ Monster. _

Lancelot pulls away from her, his hands still lingering on her sides because he is not as strong as he wants to believe. He is just about to tell her he does not want this, just about to lie to her, when he feels her hands cover his, slowly sliding them up her body, slick against her wet skin.  _ You know me,  _ he hears, a whisper in his mind, the truth, if he would only believe it. Her eyes never leave his as their hands slowly trail higher, finally settling against her soft breasts. He is frozen, remembering that moment on Goliath’s back when he had teased her, remembering how she had mewled at the contact, even through her clothing. What would she sound like now, no barrier between them? Before he can think better of it, he is brushing a thumb across her nipple, gently at first, testing. When he moves with just a touch more pressure, she moans breathily, and he captures the sounds with his lips on hers. He kisses her slowly, deeply, feeling her assurance, her desire for him, no manipulation. His lips move to her ear, her neck, her collarbone, and he has never tasted anything sweeter than her skin. 

Lancelot moves his mouth to where his hands have been so dutifully occupied, closing his lips around the sensitive bud. Slowly, worshipfully, he drags his tongue against the peak, sucking it into his mouth with a smile as Nimue gasps. He takes his time, enjoying her little whines and moans when his mouth settles on her other nipple. She moves against him, perched on his leg, seeking friction, needing more. He nearly comes undone when her hand brushes against him and then strokes gently. She kisses him then, sloppy, desperate. 

“Please,” she begs, and when he nods, she wraps her legs around him and slides down onto him until he fills her completely. 

She is so hot and wet and tight and, “God!” he exclaims, not caring if he goes to hell for this. She sucks his tongue into her mouth as she slowly moves up and then back down. He chokes out a groan, feeling a warmth grow in his limbs that has nothing to do with the heat of the water. 

His lips find her neck again as he thrusts up to meet her, over and over again. “So good, Lancelot,” she mumbles into his ear, biting the shell of it as he strokes her deep inside. “Please,” she begs him again, and he moves hard and fast until she is pulsing around him. 

He comes apart at her soft kisses, at her whispered words of exultation, spilling inside her as she clings to him for support. Her forehead rests against his as he holds on tightly to his beautiful witch to whom he had given his entire being.


	18. Virtuoso

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot? What plot?

Nimue takes in a deep breath, extending her inhalation for far longer than is actually necessary before opening her eyes. Had she just…? Had they just…? The lingering pinpricks spread throughout her limbs and the overwhelming feeling of...satisfaction in her bones suggested that her ecstasy had not been a dream. She finds Lancelot studying her, his eyes as calm as the water that surrounds them, for once not a swirling tempest of conflict. 

As she comes down from her high, Nimue feels the beginnings of that conflict trying to rile up her insides. Had she so willingly given herself to the dreaded Weeping Monk, the infamous Fey slayer? Despite weeks of working as an ally, it was all the Fey seemed to say about him. He was a monster. She had witnessed him in his most terrible action, and yet, she had bonded herself to him most intimately. 

There would be no going back from this. She had thought about what that meant for him, had longed for it, but she had not fully considered what it would mean for her. What it means for her. Nimue is having a hard time thinking about anything, what with the way he is still warm inside her. She pulls away from him slowly, clarity seeping in like water through cracks in stone. 

Nimue pulls herself out of the water and sits on the pool’s weathered edge. She thinks there should be regret. She can see the way Lancelot’s expression shutters, as if he is anticipating her regret, rejection. It is absent. Nimue feels  _ right.  _ Like she can stop pretending to be something she is not, like she can stop suppressing the parts of herself she had only been able to see as a curse. 

She gazes down at him where he remains in the water, unmoving, hardly daring to look at her. She could feel disappointment start to creep into his every sinew--he thought she meant to cause him pain, that this was just an elaborate ruse to tear his heart from his chest, to remind him that his is an abomination unworthy of anything good in this world. Nimue kicks her foot in his direction, splashing him. “I thought we were past all that.”

At that, he finally meets her eye, his stare unwavering. “I hate when you do that.”

“No you don’t.” Nimue splashes him again. “You want to hate it, but part of you thrills at being known the way I know you.”

He looks down at the water once more, hands skimming the surface, disturbing the calm, but only gently. “And how do you know me?” he asks, just as gently. 

Nimue thinks of her fear, of every memory of his she has seen. Of his grief, his confusion, his power, his conflict. Of the way he had felt inside of her. Maybe it was the heat of the water, or maybe it was from recalling their intimacy, but she swears she sees his cheeks tinge pink as she says, “wholly.”

He steps closer, as if drawn to her unconsciously, the water rippling behind him. “And knowing me, wholly,” he exaggerates the word, “you still would give yourself to me, willingly.” It is as much a question as a statement, and she wonders how he can still doubt her after what they had shared. Perhaps she would have to prove it to him again. 

Nimue runs a hand down her bare torso, skimming over her breasts before settling at the apex of her thighs. “Eagerly,” she answers him, noting the way his gaze had followed her every movement, settling on the terminus of her path. He moves closer still, touching her calf where it lies beneath the water. 

She shivers, from his touch or the night air she cannot say. Nimue bites her lip, worrying it between her teeth as his hand skates up her leg to her exposed thigh, slow, purposeful. “Is that right?” he asks, his breath ghosting over her knee, sending a tendril of warmth through her. “Are you so eager to embrace your own destruction?” he whispers against her skin, as though it were an afterthought. But was not this exactly what was holding him back? His refusal to accept that he could have something good, that he could  _ be  _ something good?

“Lancelot, I -- ohh,” she whines when his hand replaces hers between her legs. Her words are lost, nearly forgotten, as his fingers brush her sensitive flesh, pleasure moving through her like lightning through molasses at the friction. His thumb moves over her and she bites her lip once more as warmth spreads slowly through her limbs. “Lancelot, I need you,” she says in a rush, the words nearly blending together as he slips a finger between her folds.

He laughs, withdrawing his hand until he is barely touching her. “Not yet, my little witch.” 

Nimue groans as he purposefully misinterprets her. “Lancelot, what I mean is--” and before she can explain how her soul feels complete because of him, he is stroking her insides softly with one finger and then two.  _ God above.  _ How could these hands which had brought death and pain draw such heavenly sensation from her body? 

While she ponders the contradiction, Lancelot kisses her knee, trailing higher slowly as her breath falters. “What do you mean, Nimue?” he smirks into the delicate skin of her thigh as his thumb and fingers work in a delicious tandem. She wants to be annoyed with his smugness, but she cannot seem to summon irritation when he is making her feel this good. 

“Do you need this?” he mutters as his lips move ever higher. Nimue moans as he sucks into her flesh, drawing her blood to the surface in a move that is sure to leave a bruise. Still, she cannot bring herself to mind. “This?” Lancelot asks, as he soothes over the spot with his tongue, his breath ghosting over her delicate nub. She whimpers. “This?” All conscious thought leaves her when his lips close over her in a gentle kiss. If she had thought his hands capable of a most divine worship, his mouth brought her to ascendency. He licks at her slowly, as his fingers continue to delve deeper inside her, drawing out waves of pure, unending perfection.

“I love being known by you,” Lancelot murmurs as he drags his tongue achingly slow against her clit, no hint of teasing in his tone. “And knowing you,” he declares after another torturous sweep of his tongue.  _ By the Hidden.  _ How could she go on like this?

“Please, Lancelot,” she begs when he finds a particularly sensitive spot inside her. She can feel his lips turn up at the edges as his fingers continue to stroke her in time with his tongue. “Lancelot, I-- Gods!” she whines when he sucks her clit into his mouth, laving it fervently as his fingers crook and she swears her heart stops as bliss shoots through her like sparks igniting an unyielding flame. Moments later, the inferno is languidly extinguished, but it is too late; she is forever marked by the flames. How could she possibly regret this? He is a part of her, inextricable from her very being, and she would never have it any other way.

“I am yours Lancelot,” she says on a breath, collapsing back onto her hands. “Wholly.”

****

Lancelot catalogues every minutiae of her expression, his hands resting on the tops of her thighs. God, she is beautiful like this, enraptured by joyous abandon. She opens her eyes lazily, gazing at him wondrously, a sentiment he shares.  _ I am yours Lancelot. Wholly.  _ She knew who he was, knew the darkest parts of him, and yet she would choose him anyway? Would trust herself with him when he hardly knew he could trust himself? 

“As I am yours, Nimue,” he promises her. It is a vow he intends never to break. 

For the first time, he feels truly sure of something. Nimue is the salvation he had prayed so desperately for all these years. Somehow, this stubborn witch had broken through his hardened heart and not shied away from what remained. Maybe it was the Sword that brought them together, but Lancelot knew in his bones now that without it, she would be just as much a part of him. And knowing that, he does not fear what may come. They would face it, together.


End file.
